


Complications

by damnedscribblingwoman



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, F/M, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Memory Loss, Secret Relationship, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnedscribblingwoman/pseuds/damnedscribblingwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He regarded her in silence for a few seconds. He had not known where they stood after coming back from summer break, but they had quickly fallen back into their old pattern of making out in secluded areas of the castle whenever they could find the time. He had no doubt - and he knew she didn’t either - that it was a bad habit, but it was a bad habit that he had grown rather fond of, and he was not prepared to part with it just yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Part I**

"We are not doing this again." Those were the first words out of her mouth as soon as she entered the room. Draco sniggered.

"That's rather inconsistent of you, considering you went to the trouble of finding this room just for this purpose."

It was a small storage room in one of the castle's many towers, cluttered with half-broken junk discarded by generations of Hogwarts students. Going by the amount of dust and cobwebs, even the house elves didn't come up here.

"I'll have you know," she interjected, "that I found this room for the express purpose of telling you in private, as clearly as possible, that you and I are done."

"Why?" he asked simply. He wasn't worried. Not yet. Draco Malfoy did not worry before he had to, and he wasn't there yet.

Really.

"What do you mean 'why'; do you really need me to spell it out for you?"

"Let's say I do."

"You and I don't even like each other," she said exasperated. "We have nothing in common. You loathe my friends; I despise everything you stand for."

"Never stopped us before." Draco made to brush a rebel curl away from her face, but Hermione waved his hand aside.

"It should have. It stops now."

He regarded her in silence for a few seconds. He had not known where they stood after coming back from summer break, but they had quickly fallen back into their old pattern of making out in secluded areas of the castle whenever they could find the time. He had no doubt — and he knew she didn't either — that it was a bad habit, but it was a bad habit that he had grown rather fond of, and he was not prepared to part with it just yet.

"Is this about Umbridge?" he asked finally. When Hermione didn't reply, Draco pressed on. "How am I to blame for that pink bat? I happen to like Defense Against the Dark Arts, I would rather it were taught by a competent teacher."

"As long as that teacher is not a werewolf," she couldn't help but point out.

"What can I say, I'm more of a cat person," he joked, grabbing her hand.

"You're not funny, Draco."

"Come on, I'm a little funny." He leaned forward, planting a chaste kiss on her lips. The boy could see she was upset, he just wasn't sure how he could make it better. Hermione drew closer to him with a sigh, still avoiding his eyes.

"You know," he said, "of all the things that could be an issue between us — and I mean, like the Dark Lord or the impending clash between the conflicting forces in this messed up life of ours — mid-level management with atrocious fashion sense was not on my list of worries."

She smiled at that. "You have a list of worries?"

"Yes, it's a very long list. Nargles are at the very top of it."

The knot in his stomach eased a little when she laughed. He couldn't stand to see her upset. He couldn't stand that one day he wouldn't be able to fix it. It was always a relief to know he had earned one day more of whatever that thing between them was.

"Nargles, huh?" She looked up at him, a smile on her very tempting lips.

"What, I read The Quibbler! Just don't tell anyone, it would utterly ruin my reputation."

"I dare say that's the least I could say that would utterly ruin your reputation."

"I dare say you're right." Draco wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling Hermione to him and stopping that train of thought the only way he knew how. She kissed him back, some of the tension leaving her body as she relaxed into him. Why couldn't life be that simple?

He bit her lip playfully. "So, how safe is this room, exactly?" he asked in between kisses.

"Why do you ask?" The way she pressed harder against him suggested she knew exactly why he was asking.

"Call it curiosity." He started unbuttoning her shirt, slowly kissing and biting her neck as he did.

"It's untraceable. If someone was trying to track us down they wouldn't find us in here. It's also enchanted so only you or I can open the door. I used every protective spell I could think of."

"Smart girls are the sexiest girls," he grinned, pulling her towards the old battered sofa in the corner.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm all that smart." Hermione pushed him down on the sofa, sitting on his lap, one leg on each side of him. Draco cupped her face with his hands, breaking away from the kiss. She raised an eyebrow, surprised. Her face was slightly flustered and her hair looked even wilder than usual. She looked beautiful.

"Helen Appleberry," he said.

"What?"

"Do you know who Helen Appleberry is?"

He could almost hear the gears turning inside her head, trying to make sense of the seemingly random question.

"She was a famous potion maker," Hermione said finally. "Appleberry wrote on the many applications of wolfsbane and discovered how to properly brew white baneberries so that they could be used in potions without poisoning the drinker."

"10 points for Gryffindor." His mimicry of Snape's monotone earned him a chuckle. "Helen Appleberry was really smart. And it didn't matter that she was involved with some dodgy wizard who turned out to be a body snatcher and it was this big scandal, because she went on to research wolfsbane and found a way to depoison perfectly good poisonous berries. She was really smart. So are you, even if you have terrible taste in guys."

Hermione smiled, bringing her forehead to rest against his. "I happen to think I have extremely good taste in guys."

He could still feel the smile on her lips when she kissed him again, and for the next hour they both managed to forget that life was infinitely more complicated outside of that cluttered tower room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this turned out differently than what I had intended. At first I had meant to make Draco more of an ass and the chapter a whole lot more angsty, but it ended up really fluffy instead... Anyways, hope you liked it :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dobby knows more than he should. Luna comes to the rescue. Draco is less than amused. So is Hermione.

“Fragaria ananassa.” The Fat Lady swung back, waving Hermione through with a handful of strawberries on one hand and a big round half empty bowl on the other.

The common room was empty but for a couple of first years giggling conspiratorially over a very old and battered book, which they quickly tried to conceal upon realizing who she was. Hermione ignored them, heading straight for the dormitory. Between DA meetings and the time spent with Draco, she was woefully behind on her school work. There were OWLs to prepare for and she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that at this rate she would never achieve more than average marks on most of her subjects.

And Hermione Granger did not do average.

Harry and Ron had tried to plead, bribe and threaten her to join them for a day at Hogsmeade, but Hermione had refused to be swayed, tempted or cowered, and had stayed behind. There was a study session ahead and neither the possibility of a free day with her friends nor the prospect of foiling the mischievous plans of first years was going to get in the way of that.

Hermione was half way up the stairs to her room when she came to a halt. This was going to bother her.

A small detour on her way to ten Outstandings couldn’t possibly hurt.

The determined prefect marched back downstairs, stopping just short of the absorbed duo.

“Hand it over,” she said with an outstretched hand.

One of the students, a small brunette whose name Hermione didn’t know, turned ten different shades of red, while her friend tried rather ineffectively to hide the book under the rolls of parchment left around the table. Hermione rolled her eyes and pointed her wand in the general direction of the book.

"Accio _Wizarding Cookbook_." The book flew from under its poor excuse of a hiding place straight to her hand.

“Oi, you can’t take that,” said the boy, jumping to his feet.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I can.” She eyed the volume in her hand as she walked away, ignoring the complaints of the young Gryffindor. _The Wizarding Cookbook_ was a somewhat old-fashioned book from the 70s which contained instructions that ranged from actual recipes — such as home-made every flavour beans — to ways to magically blow up a house.

Granted, many of the instructions didn’t actually work and the average student had a better chance of becoming a member of the Weird Sisters than they did of managing to follow some of the most complicated and dangerous recipes in that dilapidated tome, but it was still not something that should be carried around by over-enthusiastic eleven year olds.

Also, it was banned ten times over.

She set _The Wizarding Cookbook_ on the bed, looking around for the book she had actually come to get. She could’ve sworn she had taken her Potions book to the library with her, but a search of both her bag and her immediate surroundings had proven fruitless, so here she was, back in the dormitory, emptying half her trunk looking for the elusive tome.

Suddenly there was a loud crack followed by the frantic squeaky sounds of Dobby trying to disentangle himself from the discarded nightgown he had landed on.

“Dobby has seen nothing, Hermione Granger,” he squeaked, his hands covering his eyes, still trying to shake off the garment by jumping and kicking at the same time. “Dobby has seen nothing at all, no, no no.”

“It’s okay, Dobby. I’m dressed, you can open your eyes.”

The house-elf stopped bouncing around and carefully peeked between his fingers. Having satisfied himself that Hermione was indeed fully clothed, Dobby let his hands fall to his side and smiled at the young witch.

“Hello, Miss Granger.”

“Hi Dobby, how are you?”

Tears immediately filled the house-elf’s eyes. “Such a generous, magnanimous witch, to ask after Dobby’s welfare. Hermione Granger is truly a most kind person, which is only to be expected from a friend of Harry Potter.”

“Are you looking for Harry?”

“No, Miss Granger, Dobby is here on a most delicate mission.” He had uncovered his head and was now fidgeting with the bright-pink woolen hat, twisting it in his hands without looking directly at Hermione.

“What is it?” she asked finally.

“Draco Malfoy is a very naughty boy,” he blurted out, immediately reaching for _The Wizarding Cookbook_ and starting to hit himself over the head with it

“Dobby, don’t.” Hermione took the book away, alarmed both by the elf’s violent reaction and by the mention of Draco.

“Thank you, Miss Granger.” Dobby picked up his fallen hat, still shaking slightly, but seeming to take comfort in the feeling of wool between his fingers.

“Why do you think you need to warn me about Malfoy?”

Dobby made a point of not looking directly at Hermione, suddenly seeming to find the discolored blue carpet extremely fascinating.

“Dobby knows that Miss Granger has been, erm, cavorting, with Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione’s cheeks felt hot and she knew she was blushing almost as hard as Dobby.

“How do you know about that?”

“Winky likes to hide in the East Tower when she’s feeling unwell.” If possible, Dobby turned even redder at that. “She told Dobby about seeing Hermione Granger and the boy Malfoy together. At first Dobby thought it was the drink, so he went with Winky one day.” The house-elf stopped talking, staring very intently at the carpet, his fingers pushing and pulling at the long-suffering woolen hat.

Hermione’s heart was drumming in her ears.

“Have you told anyone, Dobby?” Her mind kept going through ways to fix this, but was coming up empty.

“No, Miss Granger, but it must stop. Draco Malfoy is a bad, bad boy.” Dobby glanced at _The Wizarding Cookbook_ but did not reach for it, doubling the abuse on the pink hat, which was starting to resemble less a hat and more a collection of very pink, very frayed woolen strips. “Harry Potter would not like this, Harry Potter would not like this one bit.”

“It is none of Harry’s concern who I see or do not see.”

Looking more than a little terrified to be arguing with a witch, Dobby pressed on. “If Hermione Granger did not think it was wrong, she would not hide it from Harry Potter.”

She could not argue the point. She did not think it was wrong, not really. But it was more than a little complicated for everyone involved and she knew the moment it came out, all hell would break lose. And despite her statements to the contrary, she didn’t want it to be over just yet.

“Will you tell Harry?”

“Dobby thinks Hermione Granger should tell Harry Potter.” Following that up with the warning that if she wouldn’t he would, felt too much like threatening a witch for Dobby to vocalize, but the truth of it weighed heavily between them nonetheless.

Hermione sighed. “I will tell him, Dobby, I promise. I just need to find the right moment.”

“Thank you, Miss Granger.” Dobby carefully balanced the remains of the once perfectly round hat on his head and disappeared with a muffled _pop_.

 

* * *

 

There was a DA meeting that evening, and Slytherin had Quidditch practice the next day, so Hermione wasn’t due to meet Draco until Monday evening, which given her current predicament, was more than she cared to wait. She cursed at herself for the tenth time for not creating a set of enchanted Galleons for the two of them, but she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of disloyalty when she considered it.

Speaking of the devil.

Draco was at the other end of the corridor, walking towards her flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, who always reminded her of a set of oversized gargoyles.

Hermione kept walking without looking at Draco, quickly moving her prefect badge from one side of her lapel to the other. As secret signals went, it wasn’t exactly high tech, but there was something to be said for simplicity.

They passed each other by without a word and she wondered whether Draco had spotted the badge. She did not have long to wonder. Hermione hadn’t walked two paces before a hand grabbed her arm, whirling her around and dragging her unceremoniously into an empty classroom.

“Gentlemen, guard the door.” Crabbe and Goyle smirked as they stood outside the room, assuming an air of unstudied casualness, which mostly made Crabbe look constipated and gave Goyle a vacant expression, as if he wasn’t all there — a remarkable feat for someone who never appeared very bright to begin with.

“Have you graduated from bullying first years, Malfoy?” Hermione said loud enough to be overheard by the inflated duo. “We need to talk,” she said in a lower tone. “Tonight at 11.” Draco raised an eyebrow at her raised wand. Hermione shrugged, putting it down. Reaching for her wand was her Pavlovian response to being dragged into an empty classroom by a bunch of Slytherins, even if one of them happened to be Draco.

“Did you misplace your sidekicks, Granger? Or is Weasley whimpering in a corner somewhere, melting into a pool of weeping misery over the upcoming match?” In a lower voice he added, “Too late. 9 o’clock?” Hermione shook her head. She couldn’t miss the DA meeting.

“Are Slytherin players so useless that you need to intimidate the opposing team to win?”

“Oh, we don’t do it to win. We do it because it’s fun.” His grin was at once boyish, shameless and infuriating, and Hermione did the only thing she could under the circumstances. She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“11 o’clock,” he whispered. “If we get caught, I’m claiming you bewitched me.” He nudged her hand with his.

“Draco, you shouldn’t be greedy.” Hermione recognized the snotty tone straight away. Without missing a beat, Draco turned towards the newcomer, a predatory smile on his face.

“Pansy, I seem to have found a stray cub.”

“So I see.” Even when smiling, Pansy could never quite escape her unfortunate resemblance to a pug. Crabbe and Goyle had followed her inside, apparently deciding it was bound to be more entertaining than guard duty. “You know Granger, you shouldn’t wander the halls alone; Hogwarts can be a dangerous place if you’re not careful.”

Hermione forced herself to relax the grip on her wand, her mind running through the defensive spells she knew. “I’m not afraid of snakes, Parkinson.”

“That’s hardly a sensible stand.” Pansy raised her wand, quickly followed by Crabbe and Goyle. Draco slowly reached inside his robes for his, a fact Hermione found less than comforting.

“Ravens hunt snakes,” a soft voice offered in a helpful tone. Everyone turned to find Luna standing at the door. She waved politely at the four Slytherins and at Hermione. “Colin Creevey went to get Professor McGonagall. He seemed to be under the impression that something untoward was happening here.” Luna glanced at the raised wands with a curious expression.

Draco pointed his wand at Hermione’s throat, slightly lifting her chin. “We’ll have to finish this some other time, Granger. Let’s go.” He nodded at his fellow Slytherins, who followed him out of the room.

Hermione lowered her own wand, her heart racing in her chest. “Thank you, Luna.”

“Don’t mention it.” The blond witch shrugged. “Pansy didn’t look overly friendly when she walked in.”

“When does she ever?”

“Precisely.”

Both girls walked out together, heading for the Great Hall.

“You know, Luna,” Hermione started,“ravens don’t really hunt snakes.”

“Oh, I know that,” she said with a somewhat smug smile that suggested that some ravens did.

 

* * *

 

“I am going to kill that conniving vermin if it’s the last thing I do.” Draco had been pacing back and forth in the small tower room for the better part of half an hour. Hermione had at first thought it best to let him rant at will so he could get it all out of his system, but this was getting ridiculous.

“No, you won’t,” she said at last, patience finally run out.

“Yes, I will. I can. I know people who know people and that upstart little weasel will learn not to mess with his betters.”

“Draco, that’s enough.” Hermione jumped to her feet, grabbing his hands so he would stay still. All that pacing was driving her to distraction. “Stay away from Dobby.”

He glowered at her, all of him barely contained rage and sullen petulance. Just then, he looked remarkably like his father.

His expression softened as she cupped his face with her hands. He leaned his forehead against hers with a sigh, wrapping her arms around her waist.

“I have to tell Harry,” she said.

And just like that, he let go.

“Oh yes, I can see that working just great. Brilliant plan there, Granger. Really, outstanding.”

“Careful, Draco,” she warned. There were just so many displays of temper she was willing to put up with for a day.

“Come on, even you don’t think telling Potter is a good idea. He hates me. He’ll completely lose it when he hears about this. And before you know it, it will be all over the school.”

“Oh yes, and God forbid anyone should know the big Draco Malfoy has been fooling around with a Mudblood.”

“Right, because your friends will be delighted with the news,” Draco said. “Hermione Granger and a Slytherin. Not just any Slytherin either, Lucius Malfoy’s son. It will be a joyous occasion in Gryffindor Tower.”

They glared at each other.

“I think this conversation is over,” Hermione said.

“Couldn’t agree more.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Being closer to the exit, he was the first one out the door, but Hermione followed close behind, too angry to be cautious. The castle was empty and dark, shadows dancing on the walls near the occasional torch. Hermione kept catching a glimpse of Draco’s form up ahead, just to lose him right after to a corner or dark spot.

She was too mad for words. If that spoiled, arrogant ass thought he could talk to her like that, he had another thing coming. It should teach her to get involved with a Slytherin. Of all the dumb stupid decisions she had ever made, that had to be pretty close to the top. She was so caught up in her own thoughts that after turning a corner, she almost bumped into the two men standing just outside the circle of light cast by the only lonely torch in that corridor.

“Well, well, well, Miss Granger, what an extraordinary coincidence.” Professor Snape looked from a crestfallen Draco to her and then back to Draco. “Well, I think we had better take this little soiree to my office. After you two.”

Hermione sighed. This day had no end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm writing this week to week, when I finished the first chapter I had no clue about what would happen next, so it took me a few days to outline this chapter. All in all, I'm happy with how it turned out. Hope you enjoyed it :)


	3. Chapter 3

Snape’s office, never particularly bright even during the day, looked positively gloomy at night. Most of the light came from the fire burning on the fireplace, which cast dark shadows over the shelves that lined the walls. These were filled with jars of various sizes, an eclectic collection of slimy ingredients and colourful potions.

Snape waved his wand wordlessly and two chairs flew across the room, stopping short of the desk.

"Sit," he ordered, moving towards his own leather armchair. "Let me warn you that I have neither the time nor the inclination to humour lies. What were you two doing out of bed at this time of night? Miss Granger?"

Draco knew that was a trick. By asking Hermione directly, Snape was ensuring she would be the one caught on a lie instead of him. Normally Draco admired the deftness with which Professor Snape deflected blame away from his own House, but on this occasion it only made him wish they had been caught by a different teacher.

"We were on patrol duty tonight, sir," Hermione replied, her voice steady and calm. "A staircase moved, so we had to take the long route around, which made us late getting back to our dormitories."

As excuses went, it was not a bad one. They were both prefects, so patrolling the corridors was part of their duties. And it was Hogwarts, so staircases could and often did move at the most inconvenient of times. Snape, however, did not seem to appreciate the elegant simplicity of the lie.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor for being caught breaking curfew, Miss Granger." He paused before adding: "And fifty from Slytherin for the same reason, Mr Malfoy. And a further thirty points from Gryffindor for the worst attempt at a lie that has ever polluted the walls of this office." Hermione’s eyes shot daggers at Snape, but she remained silent.

"Miss Granger, I imagine you are aware that the Heads of Houses are in charge of the prefect rotation schedule. Slytherin and Gryffindor prefects are never paired together. Professor McGonagall and I feel that it’s in everyone’s best interest to keep the bodily injuries to a minimum. You’re both getting detention for a week, I expect to see you tomorrow at eight."

"Professor, I have Quidditch practice," Draco said. "The match with Gryffindor is coming up." He might wish they had been caught by a different teacher, but that would not stop him from trying to take advantage of the present situation.

"Very well, Mr Malfoy. On the days when you have practice, Miss Granger will have detention for an extra hour to make up for your absence." Hermione dug her nails into the arms of the chair, but did not argue. "Miss Granger, you’re dismissed. Mr Malfoy, I am not done with you."

As soon as Hermione was out of the room, Snape resumed his lecture: "Draco, that is either the stupidest thing I have ever seen you do, or the smartest. Which is it?"

"Professor?"

"Potter’s little friend is privy to many secrets that would be of use to your father and the master he serves."

Draco did not reply. When he looked at Hermione, he did not see secrets and advantages, he just saw her. At the beginning he might have spent some time imagining the look on Potter’s face should he ever discover the exact nature of some of Hermione’s extracurricular activities, but somewhere along the line it had changed into something else. Something precious. And part of him was insulted by Snape’s insinuation.

Some of this must have transpired in his face, because Snape sneered.

"You’re a fool Draco. Falling for a Mudblood — and that one in particular. But if you’re too much of a simpleton to take advantage of it, at least make sure you’re not being outsmarted by a Gryffindor. Now get out of my office."

 

* * *

 

The following day, when Hermione got to the Gryffindor table at lunchtime, Ron looked as if he had tasted something foul and was trying to drown its taste in mashed potatoes and gravy. Harry and the twins kept casting sympathetic glances his way.

"How was practice?" she asked, sitting down next to Ginny. Harry shot her a warning look, but it was too late. Ron groaned, got up still holding a chicken wing, and left to leave. Half the students at the Slytherin table started cheering when he passed them on his way out.

"What happened?"

"There was something of a crowd watching us practice this morning," Harry replied moodily, attacking the bird on his plate with a brooding look that suggested he rather wished the bird was wearing a striped green scarf and wizard robes.

"It was miserable," said Fred. "They’d start hissing and booing any time the Quaffle got near him. He didn’t keep a single one."

"He almost fell off the broom at one point," added George, shaking his head.

"If you ask me, he’s far too sensitive about it," said Ginny. "Oh, don’t give me that look, Harry. There will be Slytherins at the actual match. What’s he gonna do? Fall apart every time they say something nasty?"

"He just has confidence issues, he actually is a really good keeper when he’s focused," Harry said loyally.

"Yes, and if you could murder every single Slytherin and a few students from other Houses before the game, that might actually count for something."

"I think there’s something to be said for that idea, wouldn’t you agree George?" Fred gave his twin a conspiratorial look.

"We could poison the whole lot of them, I suppose."

"Poison just him. It would be a kindness. The way he’s playing, he’ll just embarrass himself."

Everyone stared at Draco, who was standing behind Ginny. The twins and Harry jumped to their feet, but Draco ignored them. He looked down at Hermione.

"You. A word." And with that he turned around and started making his way to the door. For a full minute, Hermione was too stunned to move, but eventually she got to her feet and followed him out of the Great Hall, ignoring her friends' questions.

Draco led her through a number of corridors and into an empty classroom. Once they were inside, he closed the door, locking it with a wave of his wand.

"What was so important that couldn’t wait?" Hermione asked with a frown. She was still mad at him on account of the argument the night before.

Without replying, Draco pushed her against the closed door. "Has it ever occurred to you that we argue too much?" Not waiting for a reply, he leaned forward, kissing her.

She wanted to argue. She had plenty to say about the night before. About their argument and how he’d stuck her with detention for the both of them. She knew the words she wanted to say but somehow just then she couldn’t think of any of them. Her brain was full with the way his body felt against hers and the rather interesting things his tongue was doing.

The smartest witch of her age and she couldn’t help her legs turning to jelly when he was this close.

When they finally broke away, there was a reluctant smile on her lips.

"Well, if that’s why you dragged me away from the Great Hall, I can’t say I disapprove."

He smiled back at her, brushing a curl from her face. "I was kind of an ass last night."

"I kind of noticed that, yeah."

"Forgive me?" No one could ever accuse Draco Malfoy of making puppy dog eyes, but just then his expression came pretty close.

"Don’t think I’ve forgotten about detention," she said, immediately disproving her words with another kiss. Saying sorry was easy, but she knew the real apology had involved walking up to her in the middle of the crowded Great Hall. Draco Malfoy did not bend easily, and she appreciated that he had.

"Well, it was your fault we got caught, when you really think about it."

"How do you figure that?"

"We met that late because you couldn’t meet earlier. What were you doing, anyway?"

"Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies." There was nothing but troubles down that path and Hermione was eager to return to more pleasant activities.

"Well, hold on," Draco said, pulling away with a look of mock indignation. "You can’t distract me with your feminine wiles, woman. I’m not your boy toy. Spending time with your other boyfriend, were you?"

"Boyfriend, is it?" She grabbed his tie, pulling him back to her.

"Or whatever." Draco wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to him, puppy dog eyes changed into a smile far sweeter than his usual sarcastic grin. Hermione wondered, not for the first time, at the curious discrepancy between the Draco Malfoy who never said anything that wasn’t biting or snide, and the Draco Malfoy whose arms felt comforting and warm.

"I still have to tell Harry," she said, afraid of starting another fight but unable to just ignore the issue. Draco, however, only shrugged.

"Yeah, I figured. Go ahead, I’m fine with it."

"You do realise I wasn’t asking for permission, merely informing you, right?"

"You know, this right here is the real reason we get along, you are even more combative than I am."

"I am not combative!"

"Yeah, love, you are." Suddenly realising what he had said, Draco turned a deep shade of red, so unusual a reaction for him that Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. "Oh shut up," he said, biting her lip playfully as he kissed her.

 

* * *

 

The library was almost deserted. Sunny Sundays made for poor studying days, but Hermione was not surprised to find Harry bent over a pile of books. She knew all too well how behind he was on his work.

"Where is Ron?" she asked, setting her bag on the table.

"Hiding under a rock somewhere, probably. Those idiots this morning really did a number on him. Speaking of which. What did Malfoy want?"

"Yeah, about that, we need to talk."

Harry put down his quill, looking at her expectantly. "Not here," Hermione said. "Let’s go for a walk." She knew the likely reaction to what she had to say would probably involve a good amount of yelling, and she highly doubted that would endear them to Madam Pince. On top of that, while she had no choice but to tell Harry, she would still prefer not to let the story go any further than it had to.

They walked away from the castle, towards the lake. It was a pleasant day — sunny but not too hot — a day which did not lend itself to dramatic outbursts, but scenery was not usually a consideration when such outbursts occurred.

"So what did you want to talk about?" Harry was the first to break the silence.

Hermione hesitated only for half a second. When there was an unpleasant task to be done, the thing to do was just to get it over with, like ripping off a band-aid.

"I’m seeing Draco Malfoy," she said, looking straight at Harry. The wizard stared at her for a few moments with a blank expression, as if he didn’t fully comprehend what he had just heard.

"What do you mean, you’re seeing Draco Malfoy?" Harry asked at last.

"Oh, Harry, you know perfectly well what I mean." Hermione could feel herself blushing, which did nothing but annoy her. She had no reason to feel embarrassed, she had done nothing wrong.

"Draco Malfoy? Would this be the same Malfoy who has hated us since first year? The same Malfoy you punched two years ago because he called you a Mudblood?" There was the yelling. "Draco Malfoy who may not be sporting a dark mark on his arm just yet but I’ll bet you he’ll be wearing one within the year? That Draco Malfoy?"

Hermione willed her face to remain calm. "Well, I’m glad you’re taking this so well."

"Are you barking mad?" he yelled. "What were you thinking getting involved with a scumbag like that?"

"Oh, I’m sorry. Had I but known I needed you to vet the guys I’m interested in."

"He’s a freaking Malfoy. His dad is a Death Eater. The only thing Malfoy likes better than to carry on about how influential and important his father is, is to pick on anyone who’s weaker than himself just to feel powerful."

"He is not so bad as people think."

"He is not so… Are you listening to yourself? This year alone he’s been spreading all those ridiculous rumours about me, and he’s been making Ron’s life miserable. Did you even think about that when you got involved with that creep?"

That struck more than one chord. Her relationship with Draco was not entirely guilt-free, but she was sick and tired of feeling constrained by the things other people expected of her.

"Well, contrary to popular belief, not everything in my life is about you two." And with that she stormed off, not bothering to wipe off her tears until she was far enough that she could do it without him telling she was crying.


	4. Chapter 4

"What does this one do?" Ron asked, picking up a purple kidney-shaped piece of candy from the bag Fred was holding.

"Makes your head grow to three times its size," said George. "Perfectly harmless, thoroughly tested."

Ron turned the sweet over with a suspicious look.

"You," he called to a startled first year. "Eat this."

"Don't let Hermione see you do that," Fred said. As if on cue, Hermione chose that very moment to enter the Gryffindor common room, but despite casting a quick glance at them — and almost certainly spotting Fred's hurried attempts to hide all the incriminatory evidence — she ignored the group, sitting down alone by the window on the far corner of the room.

"What is wrong with that one?" asked Ron with a frown.

Harry looked up from his copy of _Intermediate Transfiguration_. Hermione was busy emptying the contents of her bag haphazardly on the table, making a point of not looking their way while she did it.

"We sort of had an argument," he said.

"What about?"

Harry shrugged. He couldn't tell the truth and he didn't want to lie, so he said nothing, pretending to go back to his book. His friends were having none of it, however.

"What did you do?" asked Fred.

"Why do you assume I was the one who did anything?"

"Well, mate, we didn't want to say anything," started George. "But it has come to our attention that lately you've been a little tense."

"Stressed out," Fred said.

"Edgy."

"Well, hold on a moment," Ron tried to interrupt, but Fred cut him off.

"Sullen."

"Bleak."

"Morose."

"A right pain in the ass."

"Alright, alright, I get it." He knew he had been somewhat prickly lately, but he honestly did not think there was any version of him that could've taken the news about Malfoy more gracefully.

"Do you want me to go talk to her?" asked Ron.

"Our brother, the great diplomat," scoffed George.

"Nah, I'll go." Harry got up with a sigh, making his way across the room. "Can we talk?"

Hermione stopped pretending she was taking notes on a piece of parchment. She looked past Harry at the watchful Weasley brothers still sitting by the fire. "Not here." Harry followed her out of the common room and past the cranky portrait of the Fat Lady, who kept complaining about the comings and goings of students at all hours, and why couldn't they just stay put and stop bothering her.

Once they were out of earshot, silence settled between the two as they made their way through the busy corridors. Harry had no idea what he was supposed to say. That he was okay with it? He wasn't. That he thought she had better judgement than that? He did up until discovering she was snogging Malfoy behind everyone's backs.

Try as he might, he could not think of any way to express what was on his mind without coming across as a self-righteous ass. It certainly did not help that the twins' list of epithets kept running through his mind: tense, stressed out, edgy, sullen, bleak, morose.

A right pain in the ass.

He glanced at Hermione, who marched on as if ready for battle, with a determined expression and hands balled up into fists at her side.

He wasn't the only one who was stressed out.

Harry grabbed her hand in his, lacing his fingers with hers. Hermione looked at him, surprised, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

He smiled at her. "Race you." Without waiting, he started running, a brief tug on his arm all the hesitation she allowed herself before following him. Despite very nearly tumbling down a flight of stairs when a staircase suddenly started moving halfway through their descent, and almost running over — and very often into — a group of fellow students, they somehow managed to make their way safely into an empty hallway without loss of life or limb.

For a few seconds, all the sounds in that out-of-the-way corridor came from the half-suppressed giggles that were in no way helping them regain their breath. Harry felt tired but relaxed, all his pent-up hate for Malfoy brought down to a more manageable level. He sat down on the steps, next to Hermione, who no longer felt like someone he didn't know. All he had really needed was for something to bring him out of his brain long enough for the world to make sense again. He would've preferred to punch Malfoy for a bit of clarity, but a manic run across the castle had done the trick.

"I'm sorry I lost my tempter," he said and he meant it. Because he was more than the dark thoughts that clouded his mind these days and because she was his friend first and last.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," she replied.

"How soon are we talking, anyway? How long have you two…?"

"Since the Yule Ball."

"The Yule Ball?" Harry could hear his voice getting louder again and struggled to keep his tone even. "That was almost a year ago. What about Viktor Krum?"

"There was never anything between me and Viktor Krum. You and Ron just assumed and I never contradicted it. Viktor and I had nothing in common."

"Unless Malfoy is secretly advocating for the rights of house-elves in his spare time, I really can't see what the two of you could possibly have in common either."

"People are more than just one thing, Harry. You are neither of you as much of an ass as the other likes to think."

Harry bit his tongue. He supposed he had deserved that. He had always thought that of the three of them, Ron was the one with a temper, but Hermione and himself were quickly putting that myth to rest.

"Listen, I'm just worried, alright?" he said with a sigh. "You'd also be worried if I suddenly came to you and told you I was going out with Pansy Parkinson." She smiled at that. "You were always the smart one, Hermione. I just don't want to see you get hurt."

Hermione was quiet for a few seconds. When she finally replied, she didn't look directly at him. "Don't you think I know there is no way for this to end but badly? Things are coming, Harry. Bad things. And I know we'll all have to choose sides. Heavens, we've chosen sides as it is. There are things I can't tell him about, and I know there are things he doesn't tell me. But exactly because bad things are coming, we should all be able to enjoy the good things while we can." She paused for a second, before adding: "Though you should stay away from Pansy; that girl is vicious."

He couldn't help but laugh at that. "Are we okay?" Hermione asked uncertain, looking him in the eye.

"Always," he replied, putting an arm over her shoulders. "What made you tell me, anyway?"

 

* * *

 

Despite permission to skip most of it, Draco ended up showing up for most detention sessions, to Snape's great disgust. The Potions Master disliked Hermione, liked Draco, and his feelings towards the whole situation could best be described as a mix of nausea and loathing. Despite that, he abstained from commenting, limiting his expressions of disapproval to the occasional eye roll.

As the Gryffindor-Slytherin match approached, the tension between both Houses grew to the point where it stopped being safe for players of either team to roam the halls alone. While a case could be made that Slytherins had been the initiators of the increasingly popular habit of jinxing players of the opposing team whenever possible, Gryffindors took that as justification to do likewise whenever the occasion presented itself.

Teachers for the most part stayed out of the way, considering that a little competition was nothing if not healthy. And really, boys would be boys.

Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape's relationship — chilly at the best of times — had turned glacial, and their colleagues had learnt to avoid the teacher's lounge when the Heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin were in residence.

"Really, Minerva," Professor Sprout had been heard commenting, "you and Severus are almost as bad as the children. It's just a game, dear."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Pomona," was McGonagall's frosty reply.

The whole Gryffindor team was being targeted by Slytherins, but none so badly as Ron. They teased, harassed and bullied the Gryffindor Keeper mercilessly and it broke Hermione's heart to see her friend so utterly devastated by the Slytherin hate campaign.

Hermione and Draco tended to avoid topics that could only end in an argument, but even their practised tip-toeing around sensitive issues was wearing thin.

It all came to a head the night before the game, when an innocent comment about a Transfiguration assignment quickly escalated into something completely different.

"I am not responsible for the actions of every single Slytherin student, you know?" Draco's pale face was reflected on the glass pane of the single window of the small tower room.

"Right, and you're only an innocent bystander who is in no way involved in any of this."

"It's not my fault Weasley folds like a pack of cards any time someone so much as looks at him funny. I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave. At least Potter can hold his own."

"Ron lacks confidence, but he's a great Keeper."

"He can't Keep worth a damn when it counts; the reason why is irrelevant. And besides, everyone is on everyone's case about the match. Just today one of those damn Weasley twins made Goyle start sprouting twigs out of his ears, and you don't see him whimpering in corners."

"Goyle is a bully and a brute and I'm sure he had it coming."

"Right," Draco sneered. "When Slytherins do it, we're evil degenerates; when Gryffindors do it, you're knights for good and justice."

"That is not what I'm saying."

"What are you saying, exactly? And when did you become so concerned about Weasley's welfare?"

"He's my friend, of course I'm concerned."

"That's some pretty close friendship, for such a spirited defence."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Goyle and I are friends, you don't see me throwing a hissy fit just because your precious Weasleys picked on him."

"It is hardly the same."

"My point precisely."

"Now you're just being ridiculous and I'm sick and tired of this argument."

She turned to leave, but Draco grabbed her arm. "What, no wishing me luck for tomorrow?"

Hermione looked at the hand on her arm and then back at him. "I hope you lose. Now let go."

He scowled but let go of her arm without further arguing.

 

* * *

 

The whole day had been a succession of miserable events one after the other. It had started at breakfast, with those horrid "Weasley is our king" badges, and it had showed little improvement from there. The match itself had been painful to watch up until the moment Harry finally caught the Snitch, causing their entire side of the pitch to explode into cheers and applause. That had not lasted very long, however, and afterwards the atmosphere in Gryffindor Tower had grown sombre and subdued when they learnt that Harry and the twins had been banned from the team.

Hermione was glad to learn that Hagrid was back home, not only because she had missed the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, but also because it was the perfect thing to get Harry and Ron's mind out of the day's events. Unfortunately, Umbridge's sudden appearance at Hagrid's hut, as well as the former gamekeeper's bloodstained and battered appearance only served to create new concerns.

Hermione, Harry and Ron were making their way back to the castle under the invisibility cloak when Hermione suddenly realised there was a light shining in the tower room where she and Draco usually met.

The sensible thing to do was to go back to Gryffindor Tower and get into bed. It was late, they had barely escaped detection already, and she wouldn't be able to use the invisibility cloak to sneak out to the tower room — first, because after what had happened that morning, she was not about to ask Harry for the cloak to go and meet Draco; second, because the Slytherin prefect probably didn't know about the cloak, in which case she was not about to illuminate him as to its existence.

The sensible thing to do was to go back to Gryffindor Tower and get into bed, and Hermione Granger was nothing if not sensible. Most of the time, anyway. But it had been a terrible day and she was upset and worried, and much as Draco had his fair share of blame in the current state of affairs, there was a part of her that longed to feel his arms around her.

She cursed the ironic twist of fate that made her look upon Draco Malfoy as a comforting presence.

She waited until Harry and Ron had made their way into the boys' dormitory and then sneaked back out of the common room, which at that point was already empty.

Without an invisibility cloak or the Marauder's Map to guide her, Hermione took her time making her way across the castle, listening in at every turn, and once or twice diving into an empty classroom for cover when Filch or one of the teachers passed her on their rounds.

She was not the only student out of bed after hours. Two Ravenclaw second years almost had a panic attack when they unexpectedly ran into a Gryffindor prefect. Under normal circumstances, Hermione would have escorted them back to Professor Flitwick's office, but it was well past curfew even for a prefect. As such, she channelled George Weasley and gave them what she hoped passed for a conspiratorial wink and continued on her way.

When she finally reached the tower room, everything was quiet but for the soft snoring coming from the sofa in the corner. She closed the door behind her, careful not to wake up Draco. Sleep made him look younger and softened the sharp edges of his face. There was a purple bruise under his left eye, where Harry or Fred had hit him. Either Draco had not gone to the hospital wing or Madam Pomfrey had proved less than helpful.

She sat down at the edge of the sofa and softly traced the pattern of the bruise with her index finger. And then she pressed. Hard.

"Ouch," said Draco, startled awake. "That was unnecessary."

Hermione shrugged. "What is life without a little pain?"

"I take it you watched the game?"

"I did."

"We lost."

"Karma is funny like that."

"I got punched." He actually pouted then.

"Well, you deserved punching."

"Heartless woman, have you no pity?" He wrapped his right arm around her waist, edging closer to her.

"If you wanted someone to fuss over you, you should have stayed with Parkinson. What are you doing here, anyway? It's late."

"Well, I figured if you wanted to yell at me, the least I could do was be conveniently located." He motioned at his surroundings.

"And what possible cause could I have to yell at you? You only managed to get Harry and the twins banned from Quidditch. For life."

"In fairness, I had no way of knowing they'd be banned, I was aiming for detention."

"Cause that's so much better?" She made to move away, but Draco tightened his arm around her.

"Come on, everyone in that pitch knew I was goading them. Including Potter and including Weasley. They did not have to take the bait. The problem with Gryffindors is that you're all brawn and no brains. Present company excluded, of course."

"If that's your idea of an apology, you're terrible at it," she said.

"No doubt, but I have other finer qualities." He brushed his lips against her, a soft butterfly kiss.

"We can't settle every argument we have like this."

"Why not? There are fewer better ways." He kissed her again, harder, his left hand resting on the back of her head. Hermione leaned into him, Quidditch momentarily forgotten.

"I actually had an idea while I was waiting for you," Draco said. "How would you like to come spend some days at Malfoy Manor over the break?"

Hermione straightened up at that, staring at Draco with an incredulous expression. She doubted a Muggle-born had ever crossed Lucius Malfoy's threshold.

"What about your parents?" she asked.

"Europe. They're going away for the holidays. I'm supposed to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas this year."

She considered it for a few moments. There was a part of her that was more than a little curious to see the place where Draco had grown up. Malfoy Manor was, by all accounts, stunning. Mostly, however, she just took a wicked pleasure in the idea of someone like her wandering around Narcissa Malfoy's home, and at the outraged horror that would invoke, should either the Malfoys or the Blacks ever learn about it.

Not the noblest of feelings, but no one could be noble all the time.

"Actually, I have another idea," she said at last. "Why don't you come spend Christmas with my family?"

"Your family?"

"Yes."

"But your family are…"

"Muggles, yes. Don't look so horrified, it's not catching."

"I was just taken by surprise, that's all." Draco adopted a more diplomatic expression, but Hermione was not convinced.

"There are 7 billion human beings on the planet, a solid 95% of which are Muggles. It's high time you met some."

"I know some," he said defensively.

"Like who?"

Draco considered this for a few seconds. "Fine, I don't know any. Why start now?"

"Draco!"

"If I must," he relented with a sigh. "But I have one condition."

"What?"

"We're already breaking curfew." He started undoing her tie. "Might as well be hanged for stealing a sheep as stealing a lamb."


	5. Chapter 5

Mr and Mrs Granger were an ordinary couple who led an ordinary life, living in an ordinary home in a small town just outside London. They had met in college, fallen in love over a shared interest in dentistry and academic pursuits, and cemented their relationship over the shared belief that Queen II was the single most perfect album known to man and that Bohemian Rhapsody was entirely overrated.

Mrs Granger — who was then a Miss Wilkins — had harboured serious doubts as to the long-term prospects of a relationship with a man who believed the moon landing had been staged, and that there was a secret ministry entirely devoted to obscure policies meant to deceive large sections of the population. It was simply not becoming in someone who was otherwise quite brilliant. 

Conspiracy theories notwithstanding, Jean Wilkins somehow found herself married to Hugh Granger. After a respectable amount of time had passed, they welcomed into their lives a baby girl, who they named Hermione after Hugh's mother, and Jean after her own.

Hermione Jean Granger was a healthy, happy and clever child. She read well above her grade, was inquisitive and bright, and, much to her mother's relief, showed no interest whatsoever in far-fetched theories not supported by hard evidence.

Mr Granger's firm belief in government cover-ups was finally vindicated on the summer Hermione was eleven, when a strangely-dressed woman showed up on their doorstep claiming to be a representative of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The Grangers were somewhat shocked, but not entirely surprised by this woman's claim that their daughter was special not only in the normal way parents think of their own child as special, but that she was, in fact, a witch. They were observant people and it had not escaped their notice that for some time now, strange things sometimes happened around their little Hermione — things that defied logical explanation.

If she were to be quite honest with herself, Mrs Granger would be forced to admit that she was somewhat relieved by finally having a strong, logical explanation for all the strange events surrounding her only child.

Even if that explanation was witchcraft.

For some time now she had harboured the mortifying conviction that she was letting her husband's unscientific notions get to her. That was far more upsetting to her world view than the revelation that magic was real and her daughter a witch.

Both Mr and Mrs Granger were delighted that such a school — which as far as they could ascertain was a distinguished institution of learning — was offering a place to their clever little girl. Their belief in the merits of a good education outweighed their misgivings about sending their eleven-year-old to boarding school.

Over the years, they had not yet come to regret their decision. Hermione seemed happy at Hogwarts. She was enthusiastic about the things she was learning and even more so about the friends she had made. And if sometimes they felt they were not quite as involved in their child's life as they would have liked, they never let that overshadow the absolute pride they had in their little girl's achievements.

When Mrs Granger got Hermione's letter requesting permission to bring a friend over for Christmas, she immediately send the owl back with an affirmative reply, without thinking to first discuss it with Mr Granger. This proved to be a decision somewhat disruptive of the domestic felicity felt in the Granger's kitchen up until that point.

"But it's a boy, Jean," Mr Granger said for the tenth time in under five minutes.

"I'm aware it's a boy, dear," Mrs Granger sighed, rescuing the potato Mr Granger was mutilating. "I did not think Draco was a girl's name."

"Are we now the kind of parents who allow their teenage daughter to have a boy sleeping over?"

"Don't be nonsensical, Hugh, he'll sleep on the sofa. And put down that knife, you're gonna poke someone's eye out."

"That is not the point. What do we even know about this Draco? I have never heard her mentioning a Draco."

"Well, I dare say we'll learn all about him over Christmas."

"Whatever happened to Ron? I quite liked that boy. Funny chap. His father's a really capital fellow."

"They're still friends, darling. Surely a girl is allowed more than one male friend?"

"I'm not saying otherwise. But if she's bringing a boy over to meet her parents, that's not just some male friend. It's a…" Mr Granger paused, at a loss for the right words.

"Gentleman caller?" offered Mrs Granger with a wicked grin.

"You're far too relaxed about this, Jean."

"And you're being completely ridiculous about it. Just this summer she spent two weeks with the Weasleys, who have three boys around her age, including your precious Ron. And Hogwarts is co-ed, she lives surrounded by boys."

"If that's your way of putting my mind at ease, it's not working," he said, grabbing another unsuspecting vegetable.

"Oh give me that, you're just making a mess. Enough of this nonsense. You're behaving like a bad stereotype and it's most unflattering. The boy will come and you will be nice to him. It's the first time Hermione is bringing a friend from school and I want him to feel welcome and her to know she is free to bring her friends over any time. We hardly ever get to see her."

Mr Granger muttered something undecipherable under his breath.

"So help me God, Hugh, you will be pleasant to this boy."

Defeated but unconvinced, Mr Granger agreed that he would do his utmost to be a model of civility.

The week leading up to Hermione's arrival, Mr Granger looked to Mr Bennet for an example of a relaxed approach to fatherhood. Granted, Mr Bennet had ended the novel with an eloped daughter married to a low-life scumbag, but one out of four was not bad, as far as odds were concerned. And in his more reasonable moments, Mr Granger couldn't help but admit that Hermione had more in common with the older Bennet sisters than with the younger ones.

While Jane Austen did much to restore Mr Granger's good humour and sense of proportion, it did not help half as much as numerous fruitless Google queries. Mr Granger took them as a good sign that Draco had never done anything worth writing about on the Internet. Of course, it might well be that wizards and witches simply did not use the World Wide Web. Did Hogwarts have an Internet connection? Mr Granger did not know. He might have to ask Hermione at some point. In the meantime, he was perfectly happy concluding that Draco must be an upstanding young man who kept out of trouble.

With this in mind, Mr Granger was a picture of peace and reasonableness when he picked up his daughter at King's Cross.

"Hello darling, how was the journey?" he asked, kissing her on the cheek before reaching for the baggage trolley.

"It was good. Too long, I couldn't wait to get to London. Missed you and mum a lot."

"We missed you too, sweetheart. Is your friend Ron around? I had hoped to have a word with his father."

A shadow crossed Hermione's face. "There was an accident; Mr Weasley is in the hospital. Ron, Ginny and the twins left earlier for home, they did not take the train."

"Oh dear. Nothing serious, I hope?"

"No, he'll be okay." Hermione's smile seemed a bit forced, but Mr Granger attributed that to the exhaustion from the trip and put the issue from his mind. He was somewhat disappointed about missing Mr Weasley, as he had hoped to discretely ask Arthur what he knew about this Malfoy boy.

"Your friend is not riding to the house with us?" he asked, looking around for anyone who might look like a Draco.

"No, he's going home first. He'll meet us tomorrow."

"Oh, I see. Are his parents around? I would very much like to meet them."

"I think they left already," said Hermione, taking over the trolley and starting to push it towards the cancel that led to King's Cross proper. If she looked a bit flustered, Mr Granger did not remark on it.

 

* * *

 

"Hermione, do sit down, dear, you're making me dizzy," Mrs Granger said, looking up from her copy of _Dentistry Through the Ages_.

"Sorry, mum." Hermione did as she was bid, reaching for the old Daily Prophet on the coffee table. She'd have to remember to take all the copies of the newspaper to her room before the rest of the family arrived.

Try as she might, she could not sit still for long. To say that she was nervous would be an understatement. Hermione was seriously starting to wonder at what had possessed her to make such an arrangement. It wasn't just that she was bringing Draco Malfoy under the same roof as her Muggle parents and her other unsuspecting Muggle relations, though that certainly made her question her common sense.

It was that somehow, she had overlooked the fact that by inviting Draco over for Christmas, she was in essence inviting Draco over to meet her parents, which when put under a certain light made it seem like she was making some sort of statement, at least going by the way her father had been behaving for the past twenty four hours.

And Hermione really hadn't meant anything by it, other than thinking it would be funny to see Draco Malfoy surrounded by Muggles. That was not something she could really explain to her parents without revealing the prejudice against Muggles and Muggle-born witches and wizards held by some members of the magical community, including the Malfoys.

Hermione loved her parents dearly and was as close to them as any sixteen-year-old may reasonably be expected to be, but there were some things best left undisclosed. As such, she was left feeling awkward and self-conscious, and more than a little nervous.

And that made it really hard to just sit still.

"How is Draco getting here, love?" asked her mother, putting down her book.

Hermione started to reply, only to realise she did not know. He couldn't fly in, her house wasn't connected to the Floo network, and the idea of Draco Malfoy taking a Muggle cab — or even the Knight Bus — was risible.

"I'm not sure, mum," she said only.

"Well, it's already four o'clock, he can't be very long now."

Not five minutes had passed when they heard a small _pop_ and Draco Malfoy materialised in the middle of the Granger living room, accompanied by a wide-eyed house-elf. Mrs Granger gasped, startled, and Mr Granger ran out of his study to see what all the commotion was about.

"Terribly sorry to barge in," said Draco. "We would have apparated outside, only I was afraid of being seen by mugg— by regular people."

Mr and Mrs Granger still seemed somewhat dumbfounded by the abrupt entrance of the young wizard, as well as by the strange creature now standing one step behind him, and, for a few seconds, no one said anything.

"Mum, dad, this is Draco Malfoy," Hermione said, breaking what was beginning to be a rather awkward silence. "Draco, these are my parents, Jean and Hugh Granger."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance. Mr Granger, Mrs Granger, thank you very much for your hospitality." He handed Hermione's mother a colourful bouquet of daffodils. Mrs Granger smiled at Draco and thanked him for the flowers, seeming to have already decided she rather liked this respectful young man.

Hermione tried not to smirk. All those years sucking up to teachers were paying off.

"Who is your little friend?" asked Mr Granger, trying to peer at the strange creature half-hidden behind Draco. The wizard turned around, seeming to have momentarily forgotten the house-elf.

"Oh, this is Ziggy." The house-elf tilted her head to the side for a quick glance at the Grangers before hiding back behind her master. "She brought us here. Thank you, Ziggy, you may go back to the manor now."

Draco Malfoy thanking a house-elf. Hermione could have died of shock if she didn't know better. Her mum wasn't the only person in the house on whose good side Draco was trying to get. Ziggy bowed reverently and disappeared with a snap of her long fingers.

Mrs Granger went out of her way to make sure Draco felt at home. She gave him a tour of the house, enquired after his favourite foods, and politely asked about his grades and favourite subjects.

At first her father said little, seemingly happy to let his wife take over all the host duties. Reserve was not in Mr Granger's nature, however, and soon he was happily engaged in a discussion of the inner-workings of the Ministry of Magic with the young wizard. No other part of the magical world fascinated Mr Granger so much, and thanks to his father's political connections, Draco was more knowledgeable about wizard politics than most fifteen-year-olds.

"Well, I must say that is absolutely amazing, my boy. Memory charms. Ingenious. Though the ethical implications are certainly troubling. Still, I can see how keeping the secrecy around the magical community would be paramount to those in charge. I wonder to what extent parliament or even the government are aware of its existence."

"It is my understanding that only the Prime Minister is aware, sir," Draco took a careful sip on his hot chocolate. "Father is rather close to Cornelius Fudge, who commented with him that the Muggle Prime Minister nearly had an apoplexy on the night he was elected, when Fudge walked out of the fireplace to introduce himself."

"I can well imagine," Mr Granger laughed. "Enough to make a man think he's gone bonkers."

Hermione couldn't help rolling her eyes at the shameless name-dropping, but she was also glad and relieved that Draco and her father were getting along. Her mum was also absolutely delighted with the charming wizard and even Crookshanks seemed to approve of the young man, rubbing against his legs from time to time, asking to be petted.

She didn't know how much of Draco's behaviour was genuine and how much an act, but she also did not think it mattered. He was making a genuine effort at being agreeable to her parents and she couldn't ask for more.

"But I thought Hogwarts was independent from the Ministry." Somehow the conversation had turned from the Muggle and magic branches of government back to their school.

"In a manner of speaking, sir. The Board of Governors consults with the Ministry, which can influence school policy. Father says the appointment of Professor Umbridge was approved by the Board of Governors at the Ministry's request, not by Dumbledore."

"Is that usual?" Mrs Granger leaned forward, an interested expression on her face.

"Not really, but given last year's events and the rumours flying around, the Ministry was bound to put some pressure on the school," Draco said, shrugging. Hermione winced, suddenly realising that she had not thought to warn Draco about all the things she had kept from her parents.

"What do you mean, what happened?" Mrs Granger asked with a frown. Mr Granger smile had also morphed into a concerned expression.

Hermione kicked Draco under the table and frowned at him, all the while cursing herself for such a basic mistake. She normally had more foresight than this. It would be easy to blame it on how he made her head spin when they were together, and the way he managed to get under her skin, but Hermione was a smart witch. Draco or no Draco, she was a smart witch and she should have thought about it. She had no one to blame but herself.

It was a testament to Draco's ability to think on his feet that without missing a beat he span an elaborate lie about Dumbledore's advancing years and a hushed up scandal involving a goat and large amounts of mead. His delivery of this story was so successful that by the end of it both Mr and Mrs Granger were roaring with laughter and wondering at the eccentric old man who ran their daughter's school.

Later, when they were both alone, Draco playfully pulled one of Hermione’s curls to get her attention. "You've been keeping secrets, Granger," he accused.

Hermione shrugged. "It would only worry them. Wizard parents aren't crazy about the fact that a student died, but students have died at Hogwarts before. They know there’s a chance, however small. In my parent's world, the possibility of death isn't an acceptable risk when going to school. Besides, they think of magic as going through life with a life jacket. They see it as something that will keep me safer. They don't need to learn any different."

"I guess you also didn't tell them about the pure-blood, Muggle-hating, dark magic-loving prats you go to school with, huh?" he asked, pulling her to the sofa with him.

"I might have failed to mention that as well," she replied with a smile. "Though I might have said on occasion that Slytherins are nothing but a bunch of gits."

"Is that a fact?" He nibbled on her ear, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Although I suppose not all Slytherins are entirely without some merit," she smiled, finding his lips with hers.

Suddenly, a voice shouted down to them from the first floor.

"Hermione, time for bed. You'll have plenty of time to chat tomorrow." The sound of Mr Granger's steps receded as he walked back to his room.

Hermione sighed. She kissed Draco again, before getting up.

"The downside of parental supervision," she said, letting go of his hand.

"Are there any upsides to parental supervision?" he laughed, getting under the covers of the makeshift bed.

She was almost at the foot of the stairs when he called to her.

"Hermione?"

"Yeah?" She turned to face him.

"How do I turn off the lights?"


	6. Chapter 6

On the first day in the Granger household, Draco uncovered the wonders of electricity by learning how to turn off a lamp. On the second day in the Granger household, he delved further into the mysteries of the Muggle world by finding out exactly what a TV was and what it did.

On the third day in the Granger household, he had a temporary setback when Mrs Granger — who was perched on top of a ladder trying to pry the Christmas decorations from under a pile of boxes — asked him if he would be a darling and pick up the phone. Feeling overconfident from his previous encounters with both light bulbs and TV sets, Draco willingly obliged.

The events that followed resulted in much hilarity and a less than flattering comparison to Ron Weasley. Hermione, the disloyal git, went so far as to recreate the whole thing at dinner time for her father's benefit — since Mr Granger had missed the original performance.

The ensuing conversation, which revolved around the Weasleys in general, and Mr Weasley in particular, did nothing to improve Draco's mood and dragged on long enough to make him start considering the merits of shovelling his brain out with a fork.

"Such an interesting man, wouldn't you say?" asked Mr Granger after a particularly long anecdote.

"Yes, sir."

"I have never seen such enthusiasm over a spark plug in my life."

Draco wasn't sure what he found more aggravating, Mr Granger's incessant blabbering about the red-headed Muggle-lover or Hermione's amused grin.

He worked hard at keeping an expression of polite interest while his mind ran over all the reasons why he hated Muggles and their stupid gadgets and their ridiculous phones, and their annoying infatuation with prideless blood-traitors named Weasley.

"That reminds me," Mrs Granger turned to Hermione, interrupting Mr Granger's chatter. "How is Arthur doing? Is he out of the hospital, yet?"

Hermione's smile faltered and she cast Draco a worried glance.

"Not sure, mum. There hasn't been an owl."

"We should sent Molly a note, Hugh, and maybe some flowers. Can you set it up, dear?"

Hermione nodded, suddenly seeming to develop a renewed interest in the roasted potatoes still on her plate. Draco would not have found the circumstances surrounding Mr Weasley's hospitalisation half as interesting if Hermione didn't seem so curiously tight-lipped about it.

After dinner, Draco found himself in a Muggle-filled auditorium with a large screen occupying the far wall. They had been unable to get four seats together, so Mr and Mrs Granger were sitting three rows downs, which suited him just fine. There were only so many hilarious stories about the Weasleys he could put up with in one night, and, this way, he could try to pry what promised to be a rather interesting story out of Hermione at his leisure. She was having none of it, however.

"Ask me no questions—"

"And you'll tell me no lies, right." He pulled his hand away from hers, sinking further into his chair.

"Don't sulk," she said.

"Not sulking, just watching the film. Isn't Muggle technology fascinating? I bet Daddy Weasley would totally lose it if he saw this. Probably enough to put him in St Mungo's for good."

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

The light from the screen was enough for Draco to see Hermione's furious expression. Someone on a different row shushed them and the witch blushed.

"I don't think you're supposed to talk loudly in here," he said. "But I'm new to the whole Muggle experience, so I could be wrong."

Something exploded on-screen, causing him to miss Hermione's reply. He didn't need to hear the words to get the meaning, however, and he was not surprised when she got up and stormed out.

He glanced at the row where Mr and Mrs Granger were sitting, and, confirming that they were still happily watching the alien invasion currently taking place, he braved the growing annoyance of the people sitting on his row and followed the witch outside.

It was no longer snowing, but the biting cold making its way through his quilted jacket still made him wish he was wearing wizard robes and a cloak. Hermione was pacing back and forth a few feet away from the entrance, her arms crossed for warmth. She glowered at him.

"He could have died." Her voice trembled. "He was badly hurt and he could have died, so don't you dare make light of it."

He bit back a snide remark. He knew he was in a horrible mood and spoiling for a fight. His day had been filled with Muggles and Weasleys, and he had no particular fondness for either. Draco badly wanted to push something hard enough just to watch it break, but he refused to let his temper get the best of him.

"I apologise," he said coolly. "I shouldn't have said it." He paused for a few seconds, before adding: "I'm going to head back. I don't think I'm in the mood for aliens."

"I'll go with you," she offered. Part of him wanted to snigger at the way it only took an apology and a somewhat more aloof demeanour to get her from angry to concerned in under thirty seconds. Gryffindors were pathetically predictable.

Part of him knew he was still being an ass.

"Don't," he said, planting a soft kiss on her cheek by way of apology. "Your parents will be worried if we're both gone when the film is over. I'll meet you back at the house."

He walked away without waiting for a reply. Tall lamp posts cast circles of light on the trampled snow but the light never reached very far into the night. There were no other people walking around and he could hear no sounds other than the soft rustle of the trees. It was snowing again, tiny flakes of cold falling against his head and neck. His hat and scarf lay forgotten back in the cinema, lost and useless.

He didn't actually mind the snow, however. It suited his mood. And after a few blocks, he didn't even feel the cold anymore.

Draco flexed his fingers, trying to shake some of the annoyance. What he wouldn't give to be back at Hogwarts or the manor, anywhere where he could throw a proper temper tantrum and just be done with it.

Even he didn't know why he was in such a foul mood. He didn't like looking the fool, but it's not like he knew anyone who mattered who even owned a phone. And if he was letting all the Weasley talk get under his skin like this, then he really was a simpleton.

The only footprints on the snow leading up to the house were his. Glancing at the empty street around him, he reached for the wand in his pocket. Hermione never carried hers when she wasn't at Hogwarts, but he'd feel naked without it.

"Alohomora." The lock clicked and the door slid open. Draco smirked. It was a small inconsequential act of rebellion, but it made him feel better. More like himself. "Lumos." The house was dark but for the small light from his wand. Crookshanks, who was perched on top of the sofa, hissed accusingly at the wizard.

"No one asked you, fuzzball." All the same, he extinguished the light from his wand and went around the room turning on the various lamps. Having for the most part made his peace with Muggle technology, he sat down on the sofa. Even then, he couldn't help glaring at the black phone that sat defiantly on the coffee table like a mocking symbol of his misery. Draco picked up the receiver and held it under Crookshanks's nose.

"Eat this," he dared. Crookshanks glowered at him, not dignifying the request with a reaction. "You know, for all that you are a ginger cat, you'd have made a better Slytherin pet than a Gryffindor one."

Just then he heard a key turning and Hermione walked in, her lips blue from the cold.

"Well, that was quick," Draco observed.

"They wouldn't let me back in," she explained, taking off her heavy coat. "And I remembered you didn't have a key. How did you get it?"

"Hermione, I have something very serious to tell you. I'm a wizard." He held up his wand with a solemn expression.

"Are your purposefully trying to get expelled? Because I know of better ways to go about accomplishing it."

"That's doubtful. The amount of crap you and your friends have pulled over the years and all you ever manage is to get extra House points for your troubles. You wouldn't know the first thing about trying to get expelled."

He reached for her hand, pulling her down on the sofa next to him.

"The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage—"

"Haven't you ever heard that rules are made for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men?"

"I'd very much like to see you try to sell that one to the Ministry."

"I don't have to. You may have forgotten, but my family is extremely well connected. There are more perks to being a Malfoy than annoyingly good looks."

"Don't look so smug. Being part of a corrupt and biased system is nothing to be proud of."

Draco smirked, rubbing her hands between his to warm them. "Spoken like a true Gryffindor."

She rolled her eyes but did not take her hands away. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. Hermione was the first one to break the silence.

"There are secrets that are bigger than me."

"I know," he said simply.

"Do you?"

Feeling a renewed pang of guilt at her troubled expression, Draco pulled Hermione closer to him, wrapping his arms around her.

"Yeah, I do."

Gryffindors took care of their own, that was not news. When he wasn't busy being an unreasonable ass, he did not resent her secrets, and he was honest enough with himself to know that he too had his share.

Draco did not try to apologise for his earlier behaviour and he did not try to explain. Words were wind. But he tried to show her that he was sorry, with hands, and lips, and whispered words that made her smile. She was precious to him, and he did not forget that, even when the part of him that wanted to curse at the world got louder than the part of him that just wanted to make her smile. Preferably at him. Hopefully as if he too were precious to her.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "We should get up," he said lazily, playing with her hair. Somehow they had ended up half-lying on the sofa, an entangled mess of limbs. "Your parents will be home soon."

"We should," she agreed without moving.

"Sure, just lie there. I hope you feel extremely guilty when your father beats the crap out of me and kicks me out into the cold, dark night."

Hermione propped herself up on her elbows, her lips curved in an amused grin. "Have you met my father?"

"All that cheerfulness clearly hides a deeply twisted individual."

"Oh yes, he's a regular Jekyll and Hyde," she laughed, sitting up. He took her extended hand, doing likewise.

"Now, how can we spend the time till they come back?" he asked, his hands wandering back to her waist.

"Oi, whatever happened to your fear of being kicked out into the cold, dark night?"

"Right you are. Well, then I believe you have no choice but to educate me in the minutiae of Muggle culture." Draco got up, opening his arms dramatically. "I am an open canvas."

Half an hour later, when Mr and Mrs Granger got home, the image of Draco Malfoy trying to do the moonwalk quickly replaced the phone incident as the funniest thing they had seen all week.

* * *

After five days with the Grangers, Draco felt perfectly acclimatised to life among Muggles. He would never be a Muggle enthusiast like Arthur Weasley, but he was ready to admit, even if only in private, that Muggles were not as backwards as he had once believed. It certainly helped that Mrs Granger, and to some extent Mr Granger, reminded him a lot of Hermione. They too were bookish and knowledgeable, and believed in doing things the proper way.

The honeymoon period suddenly came to a screeching halt with the arrival of the remaining members of the Christmas party. These were a Mr Wilkins, a Mr Wilkins, a Mrs Wilkins and a despicable little brat named Logan.

The first Mr Wilkins — or as Draco usually thought of him, Old Man Wilkins — was Hermione's grandfather, a retired professor of Economics who liked to quiz Draco on current events and to ask him about his intentions.

Since Draco did not keep up with Muggle news, and currently his intentions revolved around trying to make it through the day without using an Unforgivable on the old man's youngest grandson, he strongly suspected that Old Man Wilkins thought him something of a rascal, and a rather dim-witted one at that.

Young Mr Wilkins was Mrs Granger's respectable brother. From what Draco could gather from hushed up conversations in the kitchen, there was also a disreputable brother — a daring young fellow who had eschewed the solid values of academia and gone into the visual arts — but no one spoke of him in Old Wilkins's hearing.

Mr Wilkins the younger and his wife, Mrs Wilkins, were a perfectly amiable couple who smiled easily, joked a lot, and who seemed perfectly ready to be as delighted in him as Mr and Mrs Granger appeared to be. Draco was always more than willing to be flattered, and his fondness for the Wilkinses would have matched his fondness for the Grangers were it not for the insufferable little brat they called a son.

Logan Wilkins made Draco gain a whole new appreciation for the first years at Hogwarts, who knew enough to be wary of Draco Malfoy and his Slytherin friends. All of his father's connections wouldn't be able to get him out of trouble if he were to hex the little brat, but he found himself wondering whether it would not be worth it just to get rid of him. At least if they tossed him in Azkaban, he wouldn't have to put up with the irritating git.

"Minnie," the kid whined, "come play. Draco sucks."

"Yeah, Minnie," Draco mimicked the kid's drawl, putting down the uncooperative controller. "come play." _Before I put this bloody Nintendo to its clearly intended use and beat your cousin to death with it._ No magic trail then. The perfect crime.

Just then Mr Granger's head emerged from behind the semi-closed kitchen door. "Hermione, dear, can I see you in here for a second?" Draco followed the witch to the kitchen in a bid to escape his nine-year-old tormentor.

As Mr Granger hurriedly closed the door behind them, Draco's eyes fell on the cause of all the mystery: a snow-white owl was perched precariously on the back of a kitchen chair and there was a large package on the table. He knew the owl, of course. She looked almost as snotty as her owner. While Hermione went around looking for something to feed Hedwig, he cautiously petted the bird.

"Your owner is a prat." He snatched his hand back just in time to avoid Hedwig's sharp beak. "Crookshanks," he called to the cat sitting on the windowsill, "kill." The ginger feline stared at him unblinkingly for two seconds before proceeding to lick his paw. "Maim?" Crookshanks carried on with his impromptu bath, ignoring the wizard. "You're useless."

"Take these up to your room, Hermione, don't put them under the tree," warned Mr Granger.

"I know, dad."

There was no telling what the package contained, and none of the Wilkinses were aware of the exact nature of Hermione's field of study. Draco wasn't sure whether that was due to Ministry directives or because, as far as Old Man Wilkins was concerned, witchcraft was probably even worse than graphic design.

He hesitated to follow Hermione upstairs, but she smiled and grabbed his hand in passing, pulling him after her. They sat on the bed, bent over the contents of the box. Draco sneered at the beige jumper he pulled from the package.

"This is ghastly."

"It is not. I love Mrs Weasley's jumpers, they're so comfy." Hermione grabbed the jumper, putting it on over her t-shirt. The letters H and G were knitted on the front.

After she finished examining the contents of the package — which included a book from Harry-King-of-Originality-Potter and a perfume from Ron-I-May-Have-Misplaced-My-Brain-Weasley — Hermione reached under the bed for another, smaller package wrapped in gold and red paper, and handed it to Draco.

"Merry Christmas," she said with a smile. "It's probably better you open it here rather than downstairs."

He could feel the package moving as he ripped the paper. Inside there were two small model dragons. He reached into the box and the larger dragon, a Norwegian Ridgeback, immediately hopped onto his hand, using its sharp claws to climb up his arm. The second model dragon, a Chinese Fireball, cautiously peered over the edge of the box, and, finding nothing particularly alarming in his surroundings, jumped onto the bed.

"These are awesome," he said earnestly, scooping up the Chinese Fireball to take a closer look. "Where did you even find them?"

"Ron's brother Charlie works with dragons in Romania. His company makes these for training, and I asked if he could get me a couple."

"They're amazing." He leaned forward, kissing her. "Thanks, Minnie."

She winced at the nickname. "No one over the age of ten gets to call me that. Ever."

"Let me go get your present." Draco ran downstairs, rummaged through his backpack and, finding what he was looking for, ran back upstairs, ignoring Logan's pestering questions.

"Here," he said, handing a small parcel to Hermione. The witch carefully unwrapped it, revealing a purple, beaded handbag.

"Draco, I had no idea you had a knack for accessorizing," she grinned, teasingly. "It's lovely. Thank you."

"As if I would settle for lovely," he scoffed. "It has an Undetectable Extension Charm on it. It could carry half the contents of Hogwarts Library without anyone being any the wiser."

"That's amazing," she turned the bag in her hands. "It's a hard spell to get right."

"Lucky for you that I am extremely smart and talented. Ravenclaw smart and talented. I'm wasted in Slytherin, really."

"Of course you are," she laughed.

"Look inside," he urged. "There's something else."

She reached into the bag, her arm disappearing all the way to her shoulder before she could find the second gift. After managing to hunt it down, she held the silver chain between her fingers, examining the dark pendant hanging from it — a small cut of the night sky with tiny dot stars shining faintly in a pit of black.

She grinned knowingly after a few moments. "The Draco constellation."

"I think you're also wasted in Gryffindor," he teased.

"It's beautiful, Draco."

He shrugged. "Something to remember me by."

"Afraid I may forget you in the morning?"

"I don't know. I hear women are very fickle creatures."

She put her arms around his neck, grinning. "Better make the best of today, then," she teased. "You know, just in case."

The forgotten Norwegian Ridgeback and Chinese Fireball scurried away to the edge of the bed, trying to avoid being trampled by the giggling witch and wizard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I don't normally write several drafts of a chapter, but this time I was almost 1500 words in when I decided it was simply not working and deleted half of it. Some chapters write themselves, others — like this one — need to be dragged out and beaten into submission :). Overall, I'm pleased with how it turned out. Hope you enjoyed it! ~ Kel
> 
> Draco's argument that "rules are made for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men" is from a quote by Douglas Bader, who was a RAF pilot during WWII.


	7. Chapter 7

"Finite Incantatem, Finite Incantatem," she whispered frantically, over and over. Hearing the traces of hysteria in her own voice, Hermione forced herself to stop. Stop fighting the straps binding her to the seat. Stop panicking. Stop remembering the odds of managing to cast a spell without a wand. Just stop.

Sometimes information was just not that helpful.

The witch took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down. She was smart. She was resourceful. She was the top student in her year. If anyone could cast a wandless spell, it was her.

She took another deep breath, closing her eyes and reaching out to the magic around her. Ignoring the way the binds were digging into her skin, she focused instead on the power in them.

All magic was intention, willpower, and execution. Spells were but an expression of will. Wands were but a tool.

She could do this. She would do this.

"Finite Incantatem," she commanded, her voice clear and strong.

Nothing happened.

A half-strangled sob escaped her throat as she began to frantically pull at the binds, which reacted by coiling tighter around her.

"You're going to hurt yourself like that." Draco closed the station door behind him, locking it with a wave of his wand.

She did not look at the wizard and she did not reply, but the sound of his voice was enough to freeze her in place.

Draco just stood there in silence until all she wanted to do was to scream at him or break down crying. Neither was an option, however. She glared at the wizard, who watched her with a guarded expression. He sighed, suddenly looking more tired and older than Hermione had ever seen him. She fought hard to hold back tears as he leaned down and kissed her head, one hand running through her hair.

"Everything will be okay, Hermione. I promise."

She looked away from him, tears streaming down her face. None of it would be okay.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Hermione thought when they Apparated in Malfoy Manor was that Apparition was an extremely practical way to travel. The second thing she thought was that the ground was getting closer at a somewhat alarming speed. Draco caught her just in time to stop her from landing on her face.

"Very graceful, Granger," he teased.

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Granger, terribly sorry," squeaked the panic-stricken house-elf. "Misty did not mean to make Master Draco's friend fall, no, no, no. Misty is very, very sorry."

"That's quite all right, Misty," replied the witch, ignoring Draco's sneer. "It was my fault; it's my first time Apparating. Thank you very much for coming to get us."

It was the last weekend before the start of term and they had decided to swap the Granger residence for a quick stay at the Manor. It had meant a few white lies — such as saying that Mr and Mrs Malfoy were at home — and a few more outrageous ones, such as Draco's assurance that his parents would be delighted to have Hermione over for the weekend. It was extremely hard for Hermione to keep a straight face through _that_ particular fiction.

"Run along, Mist," Draco ordered. "And take our bags."

"Please," Hermione added, frowning at the wizard.

"Please," he humoured her, rolling his eyes. "Come on, let me give you a tour."

Malfoy Manor was certainly impressive, filled with lavishly decorated rooms with high ceilings, and corridors that turned and twisted until people didn't know where they were or how to get out. Paintings and tapestries adorned the walls, a touch of colour against dark grey stone. The cold disapproving eyes of the occupants of the frames followed the pair in their wandering through the Manor, silent and critical.

There was a table in the corner of the drawing room where numerous framed photographs vied for attention. Hermione hadn’t known the subjects of the paintings — many of them Malfoys of ages past — but she found that she knew several of the people in the pictures.

In one, an incredibly young Lucius Malfoy posed in his Hogwarts robes, surrounded by a group of fellow Slytherins. There was a picture of adult Lucius shaking the hand of Millicent Bagnold that was almost an exact copy of the photo next to it, where he was seen with Cornelius Fudge. There was also a picture of Narcissa and her sister Bellatrix, who Hermione recognised from her portrait in Grimmauld Place. That photograph was awkwardly framed, as if a third person had originally been standing to Narcissa's right.

There were many pictures of Draco — one of his eleven-year-old self at Hogwarts, one of him with a broom in his Quidditch uniform, and even one of him in the dress robes he had worn at the Yule Ball the year before. Hermione smiled as she picked up a picture where he couldn't have been more than five years old, a petulant frown on his face as he tried to pry a cat away from an equally cross little girl.

"Is that Parkinson?" she asked in disbelief.

"We've known each other since we were kids. Poor Fluffy was never the same after that day."

"Tell me you didn't name your cat Fluffy…"

"Pansy named it. The stupid beast wouldn't answer to anything else."

Hermione set down the frame, picking up the picture next to it. In it, a slightly older Draco was standing besides Lucius. The boy seemed ill; his normally pale skin looked ashen and there were dark circles under his eyes. The two Malfoys were standing just outside the shadows cast by the fortress looming in the background. Hermione did not have to see the dark shadows flying around it to know what place it was.

"How old were you?" she asked, unable to look away from the image.

"Eight."

"Why would your father take an eight-year-old to Azkaban?"

"Cautionary tale."

She turned to him with a mischievous grin. "Was the lesson, 'don't do evil'?"

He smirked. "The lesson was, 'don't get caught'. Now come on, I've saved the best for last."

She followed him to a carved door at the end of the drawing room.

"Close your eyes," he said.

"What for?" she asked suspiciously.

"Just do it. Don't you trust me?"

"Not even a little bit."

"Clever girl," he laughed.

She closed her eyes all the same, a smile still on her lips, and let him lead her into the room. It was getting dark outside and, even with her eyes closed, she could tell when several lamps lit up along the walls.

"Okay, open your eyes."

It took a moment for her vision to adjust, but when it did she was rendered speechless. The room was much larger than it looked from the outside. It expanded impossibly both to the right and to the left of the mahogany desk by which she was standing, large bookcases occupying every inch of wall not assigned to a window. In different corners of the room, wooden staircases led to a raised platform for easier access to the higher shelves.

"My father's study," Draco explained. "Dozens of generations of Malfoys have collected the books in our collection. This place could put the Hogwarts restricted section to shame."

She walked up to the shelves by the entrance for a closer look at the books, but all the titles seemed out of focus. Hermione frowned, trying to read the letters on the spines of the ancient tomes, but the harder she tried, the more the titles morphed into blobs of ink with no discernible meaning.

"There are wards around the shelves," Draco explained. "The Manor was raided by the Ministry a few years back. Of course, we had advance warning, so Father set up these. Honestly, I think he was just trying to mess with the Ministry's lackeys. There are no banned books in this room."

"In this room?" she echoed, knowing she shouldn't be feeling quite as amused about it as she was.

He shrugged, smirking. "There may be one or two stashed around the Manor, somewhere." And then, to redeem himself from his family's less than legal proclivities, Draco reached for his wand and pointed it to one of the books, a large tome bound in leather. "Libri Revelio." A small circle of light seemed to fall on that section, briefly bringing into focus the titles of the books in its radius.

"Lend me your wand," Hermione asked, suddenly wishing she had more than a weekend in which to explore the Malfoy Library.

"Where's yours?" Draco said, moving his wand possessively out of reach.

"In my bag."

"What kind of witch doesn't carry her wand around?"

"The underage kind. Some of us like to stay on the right side of the law."

"You have no sense of adventure."

"You have no notion of consequences."

"You can't have my wand, I'm very attached to it." He raised it dramatically above his head.

"Don't be a child, I just want to borrow it for a second," she said, getting on the tip of her toes, trying to reach it.

"But the law, Minnie," he teased, grinning.

"I told you not to call me that," she protested, still trying to reach the wand.

Seeming to consider that the best defence was a good offence, he hid the wand on the shelf above her head before pinning her against the bookcase.

"Mine," he growled with a mock frown, a few inches away from her face.

"Haven't your parents ever taught you to share?" She tried to release her arms but he tightened his grip.

"I'm the only child of one of the oldest and richest wizarding families in Britain," he laughed. "I can say with some degree of certainty that they never did."

"How disappointingly unsurprising." She tried to scowl, but the smile firmly etched on her face refused to go away.

"Though I suppose I could be open to some persuasion." He nudged her nose with his, but moved his face back when she made to kiss him.

"Tease," she complained.

"Don't think I don't know you only want me for my books."

She laughed at his exaggerated wounded expression. "Well, you can't show me a library like this and expect to get my full attention."

"I did not think this through, did I?"

"And this is why you are not in Ravenclaw." She wrapped her newly-freed arms around his neck and Draco smiled down at her. Just then a door banged nearby, making them both jump.

"What the hell?" Draco said, moving towards the library door, which was partly open. The loud voices in the distance were getting louder.

Hermione stood frozen a few feet away from the tense young wizard, who extinguished the lights with a wave of his wand and closed the door further, allowing only a small gap through which to look.

"Ziggy, wine." The booming voice of Lucius Malfoy echoed in the stone halls of Malfoy Manor. The previously empty drawing room was suddenly overflowing with people talking loudly and cheering. Hermione gripped Draco's arm, watching the scene on the other side of the door.

She recognised Draco's parents straight away, but there were others known to her.

Crabbe Sr, who looked remarkably like his son, sighed happily as he seized a bottle from one of the house-elves. And near the immense fireplace she spotted Theodore Nott's father, who she had seen before in King's Cross alongside his son.

The elegant robes worn by the Malfoys, and by Nott and Crabbe stood in stark contrast against the ragged clothes of some of the other wizards.

"Lucius," a dishevelled witch called out. "We must go to him. This is a momentous occasion and I have waited far too long already. Take us to him."

"All in good time, Bella. All in good time."

Hermione gasped, recognising the witch. Bellatrix Lestrange bore little resemblance to her picture. Her hair was a wild mess of curls and her once willowy frame had become gaunt and emaciated.

"NOW!" the witch yelled, eyes impossibly large in her haggard face.

Lucius sighed, looking at his wife for assistance.

"You have waited fifteen years, my darling," said Narcissa in a conciliatory tone. "A few more hours won't hurt."

"The Dark Lord will summon us when he's good and ready," said Crabbe cheerfully, reaching for the cream puffs. "There's no rushing these things."

Hermione didn't realise she was shaking until Draco placed a hand over her own, which still clung to his arm.

One of the men distanced himself from the group, his face pointing upwards, as if he was trying to catch a scent. He had a bulky built and a wild expression, albeit more contained than Bellatrix's.

"Greyback," Nott said quietly, "We'll need patrols out on the grounds. If anyone catches wind of this lot being here, we'll have the Ministry at our heels before any of us can say 'Azkaban'."

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it," replied the other gruffly. "It's taken care of."

"You all right, Dolohov?" Crabbe Sr asked a greenly-looking wizard who was half-lying in a settee, his face contorted in a pained expression.

"Let him be, top-dweller," spat another wizard in tattered robes. "Some of us haven't been living in luxury's lap for the past decade. You try rotting in Azkaban for over ten years and then see how well you take it."

Crabbe Sr, still holding a half-eaten cream puff, raised his hands apologetically, as if to atone for the indignity of his luxury-filled, Azkaban-free life.

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to bury some of the fear she felt building in her chest. She needed a clear mind. She needed to think. If there had been a mass breakout at Azkaban… How had there even been a mass breakout in Azkaban? The only two people who had ever managed to escape were Sirius and Barty Crouch, the first one because he was an Animagus, and the second through his father's deception and his mother's sacrifice.

But an escape of this magnitude… There were at least a dozen escaped Death Eaters in the room. The Dementors would never have allowed it, not unless… the Dementors were no longer under Ministry control. Hermione took a step back. She had to tell someone. She had to warn Dumbledore. She had to tell Harry.

Her sudden movement startled Draco, who let go of the door, allowing it to slide back a few inches. Greyback's eyes flew in their direction and both teenagers froze in place. The man crept towards the door, his piercing eyes unblinking.

Draco turned to her. "Hide," he mouthed.

 

* * *

 

The wizard did not wait to see Hermione find cover behind a group of shelves. Draco took a deep breath to steady himself and then threw the door open, marching out of the room. He listened for the sound of it closing behind him, suppressing a sigh of relief when he heard it.

"As souvenirs go, I think you may have outdone yourself this time, mother," he said, nodding at the assembled Death Eaters.

"Draco," Narcissa let go of Bellatrix's arm and rushed to her son's side. "What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "I was bored."

"We told you to stay at Hogwarts." His father's restrained tone chilled Draco more than anger would have, but the young wizard's face mirrored Lucius's impassive expression.

"You also told me you were going to Europe. Life is full of surprises."

Crabbe's father roared with laughter. "You have one cheeky kid, Lucius, one cheeky kid."

Crabbe Sr's amusement was not shared by the majority of the Death Eaters, however. While Bellatrix was still sulking in a corner, eyeing Lucius resentfully, the rest was starting to cast concerned glances around. Dolohov looked positively panicked. "Malfoy, if we are not safe here… If there are people…"

"Settle down, Dolohov," Lucius ordered with a bored look on his face. "The Manor is safe. There is no one under this roof who would give you away." Draco could have sworn he heard one of the portraits snort, but he did not look to see. The portraits in the Manor were vowed to protect the Malfoy family secrets. And he too was a Malfoy. "Draco is my son," his father continued. "Questioning his loyalty is questioning mine. Understood?"

Dolohov muttered something under his breath but returned to his place on the settee, sitting at the edge, his eyes darting to the windows every few seconds. Just then, Draco realised Greyback was still hanging around the back of the room, edging towards the library with his face up in the air.

"Father," he called, "are we associating with half-breeds these days?"

Fenrir Greyback spun around with murder in his eyes, lips pulled back revealing his sharp fangs. "Watch it, cub," he growled. "You're a bit too old for my taste, but I can still rip you to pieces, even this far away from the full moon."

Draco affected a yawn. The enraged Greyback was almost upon him when Narcissa's and Lucius's wands at his throat brought him to a sudden halt.

"Don't make me warn you twice, Greyback." The werewolf might have been almost twice her size, but in that moment, Narcissa was the scariest person in the room. Greyback took a step back, his expression a stony mask.

"Draco, adults are talking," Lucius chided. "Go to your room."

Draco ignored the smirks in the faces around him. "Gentlemen," he nodded before leaving. He paused, his eyes meeting Bellatrix's deranged gaze. "Aunt."

He strolled out of the drawing room, his hands in his pockets. When he was sure he was out of sight and out of earshot, Draco broke into a run, conquering the stone steps two at a time as he hurried up the stairs. The door of the master bedroom banged against the wall when he threw it open, but the wizard did not let the noise worry him. The mansion was too vast and too jealous of its secrets for the sound to have reached the Death Eaters on the floor below.

"Sanctimonia Vincet Semper." He pointed his wand at the lit fireplace and the flames turned blue, while the wall at the black slid sideways, revealing a dark entrance. "Lumus," he whispered, diving for the opening.

He spared hardly a glance at the weighed-down shelves that lined the walls of the narrow passageway as he made his way down. When he came to the library entrance, he paused, extinguishing the light of his wand and listening for any sounds on the other side of the panel. Failing to hear anything, he opened it cautiously, greeted by the all-encompassing darkness on the other side.

"Hermione," he whispered, stepping down into the room. "Lumus." The soft blueish light fell on the shelves, which cast long shadows against the books and the floor. Hermione's form peered from behind a bookcase on the other end of the room. "Come on," he whispered. She hesitated only briefly before hurriedly crossing the room. Her hand on his felt ice cold, but her determined expression showed no fear.

They were almost at the passage when the library door suddenly flew open, flooding the room with light from the drawing room. He turned around, pulling Hermione behind him, his wand raised.

Narcissa stopped in her tracks and stared at her son. Hermione gasped behind him. His instinct to lower his wand at the sight of his mother was at war with the part of his brain that warned him that was a terrible idea.

The witch glanced at the drawing room before closing the door behind her. A wave of her wand caused all the lamps in the library to come to life. She pointed the wand at the door. "Muffliato," she whispered, before turning to her son. "Move out of the way, Draco," she ordered, her wand aimed at them.

Draco stood his ground. "I will take care of it, mother," he said, turning his wand hand so as to stop it from shaking.

"You know what's at stake here." Narcissa took one step forward, mirrored by him taking a step back.

"I said I will take care of it," he snarled. He knew what was at stake. He understood what would happen to Hermione were she to be found by the Death Eaters currently feasting next door. He realised what it would mean for his parents if it came out that their son was hiding a Mudblood in the Manor; one who had seen and heard far too much. He was also not oblivious to the consequences of Hermione revealing what she had seen at the Manor tonight. Draco Malfoy was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them.

It had all gone to hell in the blink of an eye and he didn't know what to do nor how to fix it, and he couldn't breathe. But he refused to panic and he refused to move.

The sound of something breaking in the other room followed by a roar of laughter made them all jump. The elf-made wine appeared to be having the desired effect of relaxing the collection of skittish Death Eaters.

Draco took another step back, edging towards the open passageway.

"Colloportus," Narcissa shouted at the door behind them, just as Draco yelled, "Protego." The first spell bounced off Draco's shield and it was hard to say who looked more shocked; Narcissa, whose own son had believed her capable of casting something he'd need to shield, or Draco, whose shields had never had to stop anything more serious than Blaise being a prat.

"Mother, please," he begged. He searched for the words that could convince his mother that letting her fifteen-year-old son deal with something that could signify the fall of her House and the destruction of her family was a good idea, but for once he had no arguments left.

"Cissy!" The shrill voice was followed by approaching footsteps and Narcissa's face lost all colour as her eyes darted to the library door. "Go," she said, looking back at her son with a terrified expression.

Draco did not wait for his mother to change her mind. He turned on his heels, following Hermione into the secret passage, careful to keep his body between the two witches.

They hurried in silence past the shelves and the banned books, and the cursed knick-knacks hidden in corners. They rushed out of the master bedroom and past the silent corridors filled with nothing but the echo of their steps.

The moment they entered his bedroom, Hermione dashed towards her beaded bag lying on the bed, rummaging frantically through it until she found her wand.

"Misty! Ziggy!" he bellowed. The house-elves Apparated immediately, looking around befuddled. Draco grabbed the closest one by her dirty apron, lifting Misty off the ground.

"Draco, put her down," Hermione said, but he ignored the distressed witch.

"I'm only going to say this once. Not a word about Hermione to anyone downstairs. Not even my parents. You are forbidden to talk about her, to mention her presence, or even to confirm that she is or was ever here. And you better make sure the other house-elves keep their traps shut about it."

The terrified elves only nodded.

"Misty, scamper," Draco ordered. There was no telling what would happen if his father were to ask her a question that directly contradicted Draco's instructions, but there was no reason to suppose he would. And as for his mother… there was no helping what she already knew.

"Ziggy, you're Apparating us at Hogwarts," he ordered, looking around for his things.

"We can't Apparate at Hogwarts. Draco. Will you please stop moving around? Listen to what I'm saying." She grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn towards her. "We can't Apparate at Hogwarts," she repeated. Her calm voice only served to increase his own anxiety.

"If that lot downstairs finds you here, they'll spend the rest of the night taking turns at playing Crucio the Mudblood." To say nothing of the questions it would raise regarding his family's loyalty. "We need to go."

"I know that. But we can't Apparate at Hogwarts. It's not possible to Apparate anywhere on the grounds."

"House-elves can Apparate at Hogwarts."

"House-elves can, but even a house-elf can't take _us_ past the wards. Best case scenario we wouldn't move. Worst case scenario, we'd get splinched trying."

Draco took a deep breath, struggling to think. They couldn't Apparate in a Muggle area. He needed somewhere where he could use magic without bringing the Ministry down on them. Proper magic, not just a small Unlocking Charm. Even if the Ministry probably had bigger fish to fry at the moment.

"Diagon Alley," Hermione suggested, putting on her cloak. "We'd be safe there."

Diagon Alley. The perfect place to go if he wanted to read in tomorrow's Prophet that there were escaped Death Eaters at Malfoy Manor.

"No, we'll go to Hogsmeade. It's not warded off against Apparition." And the station was far away enough from the village that there wouldn't be anyone around at night.

The witch nodded, clutching her purse in one hand and her wand in the other. He was about to order Ziggy to take them there when Hermione threw her arms around his neck. Against his better judgement, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight against him and burying his face in her messy hair. That morning had started happily. They had had breakfast at the Granger kitchen table and Mr Granger had made pancakes. How had they gone from pancakes to here?

When he let go, they both had tears in their eyes and neither spoke. Rather than turn to Ziggy for their already much delayed departure, Draco pulled Hermione back to him and kissed her, deeply, hungrily, and perhaps rather foolishly. The clock was ticking and they absolutely needed to go.

"Ziggy," he called at last. "Take us to Hogsmeade Station."

The moment they Apparated, he was ready to catch Hermione in case she lost her balance again, but the witch had landed firmly on her feet and Draco found himself staring at her pointed wand. He took a slow step back, more tired than surprised.

"So," he said.

"So," she echoed.

"It would appear we find ourselves with something of a conundrum." The station around them was dark and silent, buried under a mantle of snow, but while the moon was not yet full, it gave off enough light for them to see their surroundings.

"People need to know," Hermione said, mirroring his slow backward motion.

"You know I can't let you tell." Very slowly, so as not to draw her attention, he reached for his own wand in his back pocket.

"And you know I can't let you stop me."

"So what do we do with all this knowle—"

"Stupefy!" she yelled.

Quidditch reflexes kicked in and Draco dived to the side, rolling out of the way. No more talking, then. He threw back a Disarming Charm, but she had used the time to find cover behind a pillar. Ziggy was whimpering in the middle of the platform, either too scared to move or too scared to do it without permission. Either way suited him. Hermione would not risk harming the elf, and he didn't care.

His own cover was less than stellar, but it would have to do. Trying to flip the table or one of the benches was useless, as they were bolted in place. He peered over the table just as she did the same from behind her cover.

"Petrificus Totalus," he shouted. The spell whizzed past the pillar, finding nothing but cold air in its path. He couldn't hear Hermione's next cast, but the unmistakable sound of flapping wings caused him more surprise than concern.

"Oppugno," came her voice, loud and clear.

An army of angry birds flew at him like a single entity, pecking and scratching his face and neck. "Blasted hell," he cursed, waving his hands, trying to get rid of them. He nearly stunned himself before he had the presence of mind to mutter, "Finite Incantatem."

When his vision cleared, his eyes fell on Hermione's shape running away towards the end of the platform. He started after her, yelling: "Impedimenta." The jinx hit her squarely on the back with enough force that it threw her forward and she landed heavily on the ground.

For a moment he was afraid he had really hurt her, but she scrambled to her feet and hid in the relative cover of a doorway. The moment he tried to get close, another hex nearly blew his head off.

He was actually relieved.

If he didn't put an end to it soon, one of them would end up actually hurting the other. Draco looked around for ideas and his eyes fell on the brightest one he had had yet. A Slytherin solution to a Gryffindor problem. Checkmate.

Without taking his eyes of the spot where Hermione was hiding, he moved towards the station building. The moment his hand broke through the window, the pain of glass ripping his skin actually felt good. It was a specific kind of pain. Real. Physical. The only uncomplicated thing in an otherwise messed up night. He broke off a shard of glass and called out to the shaking house-elf.

"Ziggy, come here." He didn't turn his back to where Hermione was hiding, but he knew the house-elf was making her way to where he was standing. "Take this piece of glass and gouge your left eye out."

"No!" Hermione screamed. Ziggy's nervous squeaks had grown into frantic sobs, but the house-elf couldn't help the slow movement of the shard towards her eye.

"Enough dancing around." His voice sounded harsh to his own ears. "Come out, or she loses an eye."

"You sick bastard."

"Do feel free to insult me at your leisure, but I don't think Ziggy's eye has that kind of time." Big powerful sobs shook the small creature's body.

"Stop it!" Hermione came into view, walking out of the doorway, her wand by her side.

"Stop, Ziggy." The piece of glass was only a few inches from the elf's face. "Drop your wand." The witch's grip on her wand tightened. "Do it, Hermione." He took grim satisfaction in the fact that at least he wasn't the only one faced with nothing but bad choices.

Shaking with rage, Hermione threw her wand at his feet.

"Accio wand," he whispered. "Let's go."

"Send her home," she demanded without moving.

"I will. When I'm certain that you aren't going anywhere. Let's get out of the cold."

The soft blue light of the moon shone through the window panes and the open door of the main station building, but it didn't reach the shadows in the corners. Draco let his eyes adjust to the half-light without illuminating his wand. He wasn't worried about light being seen — with the amount of noise they had made, if there were people around, they'd know they were there already. But he didn't want a closer look at Hermione's stricken expression. He didn't need to see the anger and the hurt and the rage. He knew they were there and that was enough.

"Sit," he said, pointing to a row of chairs across from the ticket office. Stubborn to the last, the witch just stood there, unmoving, her arms wrapped across her chest. He struggled to keep his voice even. "Let's just skip the part where you refuse and I threaten the damn elf again, because next time, I'll skip the eye and have her shove the damn glass into her carotid."

Urged by Ziggy's convulsive sobs, Hermione did as she was told. Draco pointed his wand at her: "Incarcerous." Ropes shot from his wand, coiling around a startled Hermione and binding her to the chair. She instinctively tried to get up again, but the straps twisted tighter around her torso and legs, pulling her back against the seat. The struggle to keep from moving was evident in the tension in her shoulders and the way she closed her eyes, focusing on trying to control her laboured breathing.

Unable to stand it one second longer, Draco rushed outside. Ziggy was standing by the door, swaying back and forth, the shard still held tightly in her hand. Every few seconds, a new droplet of blood added to the growing stain on the white snow. Feeling like he was going to throw up, Draco took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. "Drop the glass, Ziggy." The elf slowly put her hand forward, as if expecting a rebuke. As none came, she finally released the shard, immediately hugging her hand against her body.

He had grown up surrounded by house-elves just like her. They served his family, cleaned after him, saw to his needs. For him, house-elves were like the portraits at the Manor: they existed and they moved and they talked, but their reality did not extend past their usefulness. He did not hate house-elves, but only in the same manner that no one would hate a teapot.

But looking at his own bloodied hand, for the first time he thought of this one very specific house-elf as a fellow thinking, feeling creature, and the weight of that almost crushed him. He wanted to apologise, to say he was sorry and that he hadn't meant it.

But he _had_ meant it.

And some things you cannot atone for.

"Go home, Ziggy," he said simply, starting to walk to the other end of the platform. A small _pop_ let him know that the house-elf had Disapparated.

Everything was quiet outside, and the reflection of the moon on the snow gave the world around him a soft glow. He stopped by the broken window. "Reparo," he said, wishing that all broken things were that easy to fix. Then he picked up Hermione's dropped purse before erasing all other signs of their presence with a wave of his wand.

Having put off the inevitable long enough, he walked back into the station's main building, closing the door behind him.

"You're going to hurt yourself like that." Hermione started visibly at the sound of his voice, and stopped struggling against the binds.

He regarded her in silence for a few moments before coming to kneel on the floor, looking up at her. The witch winced when he reached for his wand.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, sickened that it needed saying.

"Forgive me if I don't find that reassuring." Even in the half-light, he could see the tears falling freely down her face, but her voice was steady. "What are you going to do, exactly?" she asked.

"Memory Charm. You'll simply forget. Like it never happened."

Her nearly hysterical laughter filled the room. "You think you can make me forget and that will somehow fix everything? How dare you?" she asked, voice dripping with loathing. "If you're making me forget, then be thorough. I want to forget it all. I want to forget us. I want to forget you. I don't ever want to look at your face again."

He nodded, ignoring the iron fist currently squeezing his lungs. Sometimes things broke too thoroughly to fix and there was no amount of magic in the world that could put them to rights again.

He raised his wand.

"Draco," Hermione said in a small voice.

"Yeah?"

"Don't mess up the spell."

He tried to smile. "Ravenclaw smart, remember?" She started to cry in earnest at that. His heart breaking, he reached for the witch, pressing her forehead against his for a few precious seconds and kissing her tear-stained cheek before falling back on his knees.

She closed her eyes as he raised his wand again.

"Obliviate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It look me far longer than I'm willing to admit to finish this chapter. I had decided on the general outline of it back when I was writing chapter 2 and it was originally meant to be the end of this fic. At some point, I decided however that I am still having too much fun writing this, and that I don't want to end it quite so grimly (also, when I emailed this chapter to my friend, she texted me with "You're a monster and I'll never forgive you," followed by "Until I get giggles and cuddles again, we're not speaking", so I better have something up my sleeve...).
> 
> Regarding the timeline, in Order of the Phoenix we don't learn of the mass breakout until the middle of January, after classes have started. I had them escape a few weeks earlier so it would fit with the story. Also, I have no trouble believing the Ministry would have kept it under wraps until they had no choice but to go public with the information...
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, Raistlin_The_Wizard, who finally got an account here!


	8. Chapter 8

**Part II**

In the months that followed that night at Hogsmeade Station, Draco learnt two things. First he learnt that people get attached to the different things in their lives, including grief. Sometime he thought Hermione had got the better end of the bargain — she couldn't be hurt by the things she couldn't remember — only to realise he would never willingly give up his own memories, however painful.

Second, he learnt that with enough time the human mind got used to everything, even pain. There were days when he still couldn't look at Hermione without drowning in a pool of guilt and longing, but mostly the pain had scabbed over and faded into background noise. It was constant and bothersome, but it had to compete for his attention with all the other normal noise of living.

At first he had been determined to ignore the witch, but Draco soon discovered he couldn't help stealing the occasional glance at her, much like one might touch a sore tooth with one's tongue just to make sure it still hurts. It was pointless and masochistic, but like so many other bad habits, it was hard to break.

He was glad that Gryffindors and Slytherins no longer shared many of their classes. Potions, however, which he had always loved, was now something of a weekly torture.

He would often try to focus his energy on feeling extra aggravated by Slughorn's lavish praise of the Wonder Boy, only to be distracted by how much it was also getting on Hermione's nerves. She had never been one to share centre stage in the classroom and it showed.

Two minutes of amusement did not make up for the misery that followed, however, and he would redouble his efforts to try and forget she even existed.

But remembering was part of his penance, and it was hard to forget _that_.

"Very good, Harry, very good. Capital work, m'boy. You're your mother's son, and no doubt about it."

Both Draco and Hermione rolled their eyes at that and Draco emptied his cauldron with an impatient flick of his wand. Nott had spent the better part of the lesson whispering the instructions to himself, which had only served to aggravate Draco further.

When Slughorn dismissed the class, Blaise was the first one out the door, like a man on a mission, much to Draco's surprise. It was rare to see Blaise excited about anything at all.

"Draco," said Professor Slughorn, walking up to his desk, "my friendship with your grandfather notwithstanding, I want your essay on my desk by Wednesday or it's detention."

"Yes sir," Draco said, grabbing his bag and walking out the door. Only when he had his back to Slughorn did he allow himself to scowl. He had no time for meaningless essays, but neither did he have time for more detention. If that foolish Bell girl hadn't foiled such an easy task as delivering a package, he wouldn't need to be worrying about homework on top of everything else. Blasted Gryffindors couldn't be any more useless if they tried.

He was so busy cursing at Gryffindor House inside his head that he failed to spot the Gryffindor following his steps until the other wizard shoved him unceremoniously into an empty classroom.

"Do you want to die, Potter?"

"What did you do to her?" demanded the half-blood, grabbing him by his robes. Draco shoved him away, seething.

"Get your hands off me!" He couldn't possibly know about Katie Bell. There was no way he knew about Bell. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Hermione. What the fuck did you do to her?"

Draco's hand stopped mid-motion as he was reaching for his wand.

"What about Granger?"

"Don't play the fool, Malfoy. She doesn't remember you. I mean, she remembers that you're a hateful wanker not worth the time of day, but she does not remember that you two were involved," he spat out the last word as if it was something vile.

Draco smirked, ignoring the painful knot twisting in his chest. "And it only took you almost a year to figure that out, Potter? Some friend you are."

"Contrary to what you might think, Malfoy, you're not exactly a popular topic of conversation."

"I have no trouble believing that. I imagine things that are not all about you don't get much attention in Gryffindor circles."

Harry's hands were shaking with barely contained rage, but he did not take the bait. "What did she see that was so terrible that you had to erase her memory?"

"Who's saying she saw anything at all?" Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe I just got sick of being followed around by a love-sick Mudblood."

He knew enough about Gryffindor short tempers to throw a chair in the path of a furious Potter and withdraw his wand.

"Please give me one small excuse to hex you, Potter," he sneered. "It's all I ask."

"You will not get away with this, you twisted bastard." Harry yelled. "I will tell—"

"Go ahead and see who believes you." Draco smirked. "Even if you can prove that her memories were tampered with, you can't prove I did it."

"Maybe, but I can raise enough questions for people to start paying attention. And I may be wrong, but I don't think you want people to be paying much attention to you just now, do you, Malfoy?"

Not for the first time, Draco wished he had used more than a Full Body-Bind on the Wonder Boy on the train. Potter was a meddlesome tosser even when he wasn't on a crusade.

"Go right ahead," he dared. "Raise your questions. Tell your stories. I couldn't care less. Just make sure you're ready for what it will do to Granger."

"Don't you dare bring her up, you worthless piece of scum. You did this to her. She has a right to know."

Draco sneered. "You're not telling her because she has a right to know. You're telling her because you think you can use it to mess with me, even though she's perfectly happy knowing nothing about it. The great Harry Potter, who's not above using his precious friends as chess pieces."

"You don't know a thing about me and my friends, Malfoy, so keep your trap shut." Despite Potter's tough posturing, Draco knew he had him. Nobility had its downsides. Gryffindors wouldn't be half so easy to manipulate if they weren't so bloody predictable.

"As I say, do what you like," he shrugged, putting his wand away and starting to move towards the door. "It is nothing to me, one way or the other."

He was almost at the entrance when Harry's voice made him turn back. "By the way, how's your dad enjoying Azkaban?"

Draco forced himself to keep breathing evenly. If that sorry excuse for a wizard thought he could bait him, he was sorely mistaken. The habit of losing their minds at the slightest provocation was the province of fools and Gryffindors, and Draco Malfoy was neither.

"It won't be a long stay, Potter. And you're an idiot if you think otherwise."

"I don't imagine he'd be too eager to get out. After such a complete screw up at the Ministry, I'm sure he's all too glad to sit back while his wife and son clean up after him."

"Shut your filthy mouth, Potter."

"Why? Don't you like hearing that your dad is a low, cowardly, useless—"

With more nerve than sense, Draco threw himself at Harry, his fist landing squarely on the other boy's face. Before his brain had time to process the surge of pain irradiating from his hand all the way to his shoulder, they were both rolling around on the floor, trying to hit the other with more enthusiasm than accuracy.

Harry's wand had rolled under a table and Draco's was still tugged safely in his pocket, but neither boy made to reach for them. They were so focused on trying to beat the living crap out of each other that they didn't even realise someone had walked in until a voice shouted, "Flipendo," sending Harry flying across the room.

Draco stared at the open door, where Blaise and Weasley stood with their wands aimed at each other.

"You can't hex me, Weasley," Blaise said calmly. "We both know what your aim is like." For some curious reason, that made the Gryffindor turn a deep shade of red. "Go get your friend and we'll call it a truce."

While Ron rushed to Harry's side, Blaise calmly walked up to Draco and offered him a hand to help him up. The moment they clasped hands, Draco turned white and stifled a groan. "Wait," he said. "Not this one." He switched hands and propped himself up with Zabini's help.

With barely a glance at the other two, they walked out, heading in silence towards the dungeons. Blaise asked no questions and Draco offered no explanations. As the adrenaline started to leave his body, his right hand began to pulsate painfully.

"You should go to the hospital wing," Zabini said, noticing the way Draco was cradling the hand.

"Madam Pomfrey is as likely to help as she is to chop it off. I'll take my chances with Gregory." Goyle had begun practising healing spells over the summer. He and Crabbe were in scuffles so often that the need to remedy the natural consequences of such activities had overcome even Goyle's aversion to anything that might be considered learning.

"How did you manage to piss off Madam Pomfrey?"

"That's my own business. You don't see me asking what you were doing with Weasley."

"No need to be so ill-tempered, Draco. People will think you disagreeable."

Draco rolled his eyes, but did not reply. Normally, the thought of punching Potter would have filled him with an unadulterated sense of glee, but the whole scene had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

With his swollen right hand pressed against his body, he flexed the fingers on his left, trying to shake the feeling of the sticky red blood he knew was not there.

"What happened to your hand?" Pansy cried when they entered the Slytherin common room. Both boys ignored her.

"Go find Gregory Goyle," Blaise ordered a random first year who was bent over a Quidditch magazine.

"But—"

"Listen here, you worthless little cockroach," Draco said, using his good hand to drag the boy up by his tie, "either you get Goyle here in the next five minutes or by the time I'm done with you, even Hufflepuff won't take you."

The kid muttered some sort of terrified agreement and hurried out of the dungeons. Crabbe, who was never far when violence was to be had, walked out of the dormitories just then.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked.

"It came into close proximity with Potter's jaw at a less than optimal speed."

Still clutching his hand, Draco fell into one of the sofas. Across from him, Blaise stared down a second-year into relinquishing his favourite armchair. Then, seeming to decide current events no longer merited his interest, he reached for the book lying on the coffee table.

"You punched Potter?" Crabbe snorted.

"Why did you punch Potter?" Pansy asked, sitting down next to Draco.

"Do I need a reason to punch Potter?"

"But where was your wand?" she insisted.

"Mate, don't go around punching people," Crabbe said with barely contained amusement. "If you need people punched, Gregory and I will do the punching. You clearly suck at it."

Draco scowled. "You aim, then you throw your fist. It really doesn't seem to involve a lot of science."

Crabbe shook his head at such blatant disregard for the fine art of properly beating up someone.

"It doesn't take a whole lot of brains to know a skull is harder than a hand. You punch someone on the face with a closed fist, you better know what you're doing or that's gonna happen."

They all looked up as Goyle ran into the room followed by the out-of-breath first year, who cast a worried glance at the grandfather clock in the corner.

"What happened?" cried Goyle.

"Draco punched Potter for reasons yet undisclosed," offered Pansy. "With a closed fist, which apparently is a terrible idea. I'm not entirely sure what Blaise's role in all of this is."

"Mate, if you need people punched, Vincent and me will do the punching."

"Vincent and I," mouthed Blaise to no one in particular, his eyes never leaving the book.

"Just what I said," Crabbe agreed. "Next time, just hex him or something."

"Lay off, will you?" Draco snapped. "Can you do anything about this?" He raised the injured hand to Goyle. The other boy took a hold of it, carefully flexing each finger. Draco winced but did not move.

"I think something is broken," Goyle said, frowning at the swelling. "You should go to Madam Pomfrey."

"I don't need a second lecture from her; I already got you lot on my case. Can't you fix it?"

"Depends. How brave are you feeling?"

"Just get on with it."

Goyle shrugged. "It's your funeral." He carefully turned Draco's hand between his one last time, frowning as he ran a light finger over different spots. "This is a terrible idea," he said, before reaching for his wand and touching it to Draco's skin. "Episkey."

Warmth spread from the tips of his fingers all the way to his wrist, right before the whole hand became cold as if it had been dunked in ice cold water. The swelling went down almost instantly, however, which Draco took to be a good sign. He tentatively flexed his fingers.

"It worked!" Goyle's smile was euphoric. "I can't believe it worked!"

"Thanks, Greg."

"Mate, did you see that?" Goyle asked Crabbe excitedly. "It bloody worked!"

"Blimey," said Crabbe. "Last time you tried it on me, it was like getting hit by a Bludger. That's what I call improvement."

"Settle down, boys," Pansy said, tucking her legs under her on the sofa and nestling against Draco, who put a lazy arm around her shoulders.

"Don't even," Blaise said, looking up from his book. "It's making Urquhart glare and it's throwing off my reading."

"You can't even see him from where you are," Pansy replied. "And he can glare all he wants. If he's so bothered, he shouldn't have been flirting with Millie."

"Why, Pansy, I feel used," Draco complained mockingly.

"We all have our crosses to bear, darling. And besides," she continued, "I'm thinking of dumping him. He lacks a certain something."

"Yeah, a full Gringotts vault," Blaise scoffed.

"Don't project your mummy issues on me, Zabini."

"Is everything ready for later?" Draco asked Crabbe, not in the mood to put up with his friends' bickering.

Crabbe nodded with a self-satisfied smile, but Goyle — who up until that point had still been basking in the glory of his great medical success — frowned unhappily.

"Not again. Must we really? It's embarrassing as hell," he complained.

"You do as you're told, Goyle, same as always," Draco replied coldly.

"But it hardly seems fair that we always get the crappy assignments," the other insisted with a mutinous expression.

"The fault, dear Brutus," Blaise said without looking up from his book, "is not in our stars, but in ourselves that we are underlings."

Silence met that bizarre declaration. Blaise looked up at the perplexed face of the other Slytherins. "Shakespeare," he said in a tone that suggested they were all ignorant idiots.

Pansy sneered. "Don't quote Muggles, Blaise, it's not attractive."

"Peasants," he scoffed, returning his attention to the book.

"I will never understand how you can stand to read all that Muggle trash," Pansy continued. "You're always going on about how you hate filthy Mudbloods and blood traitors, and then you spend all your time reading that crap."

Closing the book with a sigh, Blaise got up, looking down at Pansy. "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds." And with that he left the room.

"Well, on that cheerful note, I have stuff to do as well," Draco said, getting up. He was almost at the entrance to the dormitories when he heard Goyle ask: "What sort of creature is a hobgoblin?"

The dormitory was empty when he walked in, which was hardly surprising, being the middle of the day. Draco started looking around in his trunk for parchment for the blasted Potions essay, but he paused when his eyes fell on the carved wooden box half-hidden under a shirt. He picked it up and sat down on his bed, eyeing it with a heavy heart. Releasing the miniature dragons on his pillow, he lay down on the bed, watching them growl and snap at each other.

Potter's words echoed in his mind. _You did this to her._ Sometimes, late at night, Draco would tell himself that, in a way, he had done it for her as well. That some types of knowledge were dangerous, and that by doing what he did, he had kept her safe.

It was a comforting thought, but it was also a small piece of fiction, and he knew it. He hadn't done it _for_ her. He had done it _to_ her, and _in spite of_ her, and if Hermione were to wake up tomorrow with all her memories intact, she would never forgive him. And he couldn't really fault her for that. He would never be able to forgive himself either.

Draco did not raise his head to see Blaise come into the room. The other boy walked up to the bed, and, after a few moments in silence, picked up the Chinese Fireball.

"They're also called Liondragons," he mused. "I don't think Gryffindor is accepting transfers, Malfoy."

"Bite me, Zabini."

"You're not my type."

"Why? Not rich enough?"

Blaise laughed. "No, the money is decent. And you're not so unpleasant to look at, either. But you're too much drama, Draco."

The blond boy chuckled. That was the understatement of the century.

* * *

 

Hermione dashed into the first unlocked classroom she could find, the image of Ron kissing Lavender Brown etched into her brain. Not that she cared that he was kissing Lavender Brown. He could kiss whoever he bloody well liked. He could be making out with Filch in broom cupboards for all she cared.

And maybe she couldn't quite explain the ugly feeling burning in her chest that made her want to hex him and jinx her, and never look at either one of them ever again.

But it was most certainly not because Ron had been kissing Lavender Brown.

Hermione sat on the desk closest to the window. The gloomy half-light of the room only added to her loneliness. She didn't know what she was supposed to have done to Ron for him to be in such a mood with her. And whenever she and Ron were fighting, it was hard not to feel that Harry always chose him over her. Even if it wasn't fair. Even if it wasn't true.

The whole thing was exhausting and draining, and she just wanted everything to be normal between them again.

And preferably for Ron to no longer be kissing Lavender Brown.

With a flick of her wand, she conjured a flock of birds. They were meagre company, but it was better than nothing. Just then, Harry walked in.

"Oh, hello, Harry," she said, feeling more than a little disloyal for her previous thoughts. She knew it was not easy on him when she and Ron were fighting. "I was just practising." She pointed at the birds.

"Yeah. They're really good."

"Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations," she said, unable to contain herself.

"Er… does he?" Harry's awkwardness couldn't be plainer, but she was feeling too cross to be charitable.

"Don't pretend you didn't see him," she pressed. "He wasn't exactly hiding it."

Just then, Ron himself barged into the room, dragging a giggly Lavender behind him. They stopped in their tracks at the sigh of Harry and Hermione, and Lavender stifled another bout of giggles before waltzing out of the room.

For a moment no one spoke and the only sound in the classroom came from the chirping birds that still circled Hermione's head. The happy noise felt strange and out of place.

"Hi, Harry!" Ron finally said, his tone cheerful but tense. "Wondered where you'd got to."

Hermione got up, followed by her merry entourage of canaries. "You shouldn't leave Lavender waiting outside," she said, trying to keep her tone level. "She'll wonder where you've gone."

She walked to the door, shoulders back, head held high. Maybe it did bother her, but she'd be damned if she was going to let him see that. She only needed to keep up her mask of indifference until she was safely out of the room. Breathe in, breathe out; five more steps until the door. One foot before the other, eyes straight ahead. When she grabbed the handle, she thought for a moment that she had made it. But just then, that ugly feeling hidden just beneath the surface took over. She spun around, wand raised, and yelled, "Oppugno!".

The birds flew at Ron like vengeful spirits, pecking and scratching his face and neck, as the boy frantically tried to swat them away with his hands. She couldn't help a smug grin before walking out.

Lavender was nowhere to be seen. Hermione started making her way towards the common room, but just as she turned a corner, the witch was suddenly overcome by dizziness and had to lean on the wall to stop from falling. It was gone in a moment, however, but as soon as she straightened up, her legs buckled under her and she fell to her knees, her brain flooded with random thoughts and feelings.

_Oppugno! And then she ran, her heart drumming in her hears. She heard the jinx before the strike hit and threw her forward. Warmth mingled with pain spreading across her back. Snow in her mouth and nose. The small moment of panic when she couldn't breathe, followed by the clarity of instinct when she found new cover. So cold. There was no light but the blue, soft glow of the moon and the sharp, quick light of the spells that seemed to miss more than hit. How had it all gone so wrong so quickly?_

Hermione gasped, trying to catch her breath. Her thoughts were sand, and the more she struggled to hold them, the more they got away. These were pathways that led nowhere, and the more she tried to follow them, the more disoriented she felt until all she could do was sob into her hands in the empty corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings," is from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar.  
> "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds," is from Self-Reliance, by Ralph Waldo Emerson.  
> The dialogue at the end of the chapter is from Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it ;) ~Kel


	9. Chapter 9

Hermione had never faced a problem, big or small, for which she could not find the answer in a book. Or so she told herself as she bent forward, trying to decipher the minute script of the dusty old tome lying open in front of her. There was a pile of discarded books to her left and several sheets of parchment to her right.

Every time she added a new tome to the tower of books, the structural integrity of the thing came a little closer to ruin, but so far it hadn't stopped her from adding yet another volume whose usefulness had proved limited. The parchment was covered with hurriedly scribbled notes, but despite her industrious efforts, being buried under a literary avalanche might well be the most exciting thing to happen yet.

She sighed, aggravated. She had no time for any of this. She had miles of homework from all of her classes, to say nothing of all the extra studying required at NEWT level. And try as she might, she could not find anything useful, which was hardly surprising. How could she find an answer if she didn't know the question?

It didn't deter her, however, and not just because she could not stand a puzzle with no solution.

Hermione was no stranger to fear. No one could go to Hogwarts for five years and live through the things she had without getting reasonably acquainted with the feeling. But nothing had ever prepared her for the sheer terror of a mind turned to sand and water, a brain that refused to obey or even respond, and thoughts scrambled and jumbled until even breathing took effort.

She could still feel it echoing inside her head every time she closed her eyes, even so many weeks later. And sometimes during the day, a word or a gesture would trigger something inside her, as if her mind was trying to piece together associations that simply were not there.

Sometimes she saw images, as she had that first night, crying alone in the empty corridor. There were flashes of light, like spells in the dark, and stone halls where steps echoed. Sometimes there were sounds: the frantic sobs of a child, a whisper she couldn't quite make out, and happy laughter she couldn't place. And other times she could feel the soft brush of skin against skin and the breath of someone standing too close.

There were times when she could feel straps biting into her wrists and arms, and she had to get up to shake it off.

She learnt that trying to follow the memories was only good to give herself a panic attack, so she didn't. She waited it out, hoping that the next episode would not find her in the middle of a class, or at lunch in the Great Hall, and hoping that if it did, no one would be any the wiser. She learnt that pretending everything was as it should be was tiring, but not so tiring as waiting for the next time it happened. And there was always a next time. Random, unpredictable, with no triggers she could identify.

Hermione was no fool. She might not know what it was or what had caused it, but she knew enough to know something was wrong. Her theories were many and varied, ranging from the possible, to the unlikely, to the positively ridiculous. Not knowing, everything was fair game. She knew enough to know that the line that separated reasonable from ludicrous was constantly moving.

Remembering Ginny's account of her time under Tom Riddle's influence, Hermione took great pains to go over everything that had happened to her since the beginning of the year, trying to ascertain whether there was any time she could not account for. When that produced no results, she wondered whether it might be something akin to the link between Harry and Voldemort the year before. But she was lacking in the evil nemesis department, so that particular theory went under the "Extremely unlikely scenarios" column.

But even if Voldemort wasn't personally out to get her, these were dangerous times, and she remembered all too well what had happened to Katie Bell.

A Memory Charm was also a possibility, and she could not help but shudder at the thought of Gilderoy Lockhart wandering the halls of St Mungo's with a foolish grin and a mind that would never be whole again. Hermione could not think of any reason why anyone would like to Obliviate her of all people, but she supposed that if anyone had, she would most certainly not recall the reason. This made her move "Memory Charm" from the "Somewhat unlikely" to the "Possible" column.

She had refused to add insanity to the list. There was no family history of mental illness and she was only seventeen, making it extremely unlikely. In her more honest moments, Hermione was forced to admit that the list included several items far more far-fetched than madness, but none of those kept her up at night, and she refused to humour the part of her that felt terrified by the possibility. She recognised it as a fear based more on paranoia than a sound logical basis, and she was too much her mother's daughter to wish to indulge in flights of fancy.

"The library is closing in five minutes," warned Madam Pince. "You better make sure all of those are put back in their correct places, young lady."

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione said. It's not as if she had found anything useful, anyway. She set aside _The Mind Thief_ to check out, and set out to put the other volumes back to their original place in the shelves.

She was returning _Unforgivables: A History_ to the Restricted Section when her gaze fell upon another book. _The Wizarding Cookbook_ was two parts cheap sensationalism and one part misguided illusions of grandeur, and would have been a dangerous book if any of its recipes actually worked. Mostly, however, it interested no one but rebellious twelve-year-olds who didn't know any better.

The book felt familiar in her hands, and Hermione flipped through some of the pages. She struggled to remember why it was important. It felt important. She knew there was something to remember, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

_Draco Malfoy is a very naughty boy._

The book fell with a bang, as Hermione turned around trying to find the source of the disembodied voice. There was no one there, however, save for books and spiders, and the approaching footsteps of Madam Pince.

"What is the meaning of this?" the librarian asked infuriated. "Pick up that book at once. I would not have expected this of you, Miss Granger. Hurry now. And out of the Restricted Section. If you don't have the maturity to handle books in a responsible fashion, you have no business being in here."

Hermione mumbled her apologies and hurried out of the library red-faced. Her heart was drumming in her chest and there was a knot in her throat, but outrage had mostly replaced fear. Her mind was her playground and she refuse to let anyone or anything have a bigger say in the running of it than she did. She would get to the bottom of this if was the last thing she did.

She must still have looked upset when she entered the common room, however, because Harry got up to meet her right as she was about to reach the entrance to the dormitories.

"Come sit with us," he asked, motioning to where Seamus and Neville were sitting. "Don't let it bother you." It was Harry's awkwardness that clued her in as to what he meant.

Hermione glanced to the corner where Ron and Lavender were drooling all over each other and found that she lacked the energy to care. There were more important things to think about than Ron's appalling taste in women.

"It doesn't bother me, Harry," she said truthfully, though it was clear from his expression that he did not believe her. "But I am tired and I still have things to do before bed."

She didn't give him time to object before making her escape to the relative safety of her room. She appreciated that he was trying to make her feel better, but a brain too full of alien voices made her crave solitude. Sometimes she thought she ought to confide in Harry. He was her friend; he would be there for her even if it did turn out she was one step away from losing her marbles. But he was so worked up over everything that was going on that she didn't want to be yet another thing for him to worry about.

There were still a couple of hours to go before Lavender and Parvati were likely to turn in, and Hermione fully intended to put the time to good use. She fished _The Mind Thief_ out of her bag and opened her trunk, looking for the set of Self-Writing Quills Fred and George had given her for Christmas. She thought she had taken one of the quills with her to the library, but that had turned out to be only a regular quill — a mistake both embarrassing and inconvenient.

Half the contents of her trunk were haphazardly piled around her by the time she found the quills. She had received them only a few weeks before and it was beyond her how they had managed to get that far down in the trunk. As often happens, putting her worldly possessions back in their proper place took twice the time it had taken her to get them out, though mostly because she kept hearing her great aunt Catherine's directions as to the best method of packing. She was almost done when she noticed Crookshanks was sitting on top of one of her purses.

"Other cats help, you know?" she teased, reaching for the purple purse. The shameless feline caught her index finger between his teeth. It was not much of a bite, and she retaliated only by poking him with the uninjured finger by way of retribution. "Silly goose." She stole the purse away from the unimpressed cat, who jumped into the trunk after it.

"Crookshanks, down! Will you stop being silly? It's just an old purse. I don't even remember where I…" She paused before picking up the discarded item again, and turning it between her hands. She did not remember where she had got it, but was that so very strange? She was sure she could not pinpoint the origin of every single thing she owned.

It took only a few minutes of examining the bag for her to realise it was enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. She would most certainly have remembered _that_. Instead of spending time trying to locate whatever items may be inside it, she turned the purse upside down and shook it.

There were only a few things in it, and most of them held little interest. There was a tissue package, a few pounds in lose change, and a copy of _Jane Eyre_ that she thought she had lost.

And then there was a ticket for her hometown's cinema, marked 22nd of December 1995, for a film she did not recall seeing.

Had she gone home for Christmas the year before? She was supposed to go to Grimmauld Place, to be with the Weasleys because Mr Weasley had been attacked right before Christmas, but she didn't remember going. No. Now that she thought about it, she must have gone to her parents' house.

She tried to recall specific events from that winter break, but her brain was full of cotton and the harder she tried, the more she could focus only on the fact that she just couldn't remember. Blinking back tears, Hermione gave up trying to piece together the events of the year before, and picked up the last item.

_Something to remember me by._

The moment she touched the silver chain, her parents' living room flashed before her eyes. She couldn't see the Christmas tree, but there were lights reflected on the opposite wall, twinkling red, yellow and blue. She smiled at how pretty they looked, and wondered briefly whether he thought them pretty too. She knew better than to ask, however. He seemed content enough, his body warm beneath hers as he played with her hair.

The memory was gone in a moment and Hermione struggled to keep from trying to follow it, knowing by now how pointless that would be. Her hands were shaking, but she forced herself to focus on the physical immediacy of the necklace. It was a simple silver chain with a dark pendant. It wasn't something she would normally wear. She ran her fingers along the chain, trying to trigger another vision, but nothing came. She then turned her attention to the pendant, which was black except for the small shining dots.

No, not dots. Stars. It was a constellation.

Hermione gasped, dropping the necklace. It couldn't possibly be.

She got up and rushed to Parvati's bookcase, quickly scanning the titles and grabbing two astrology books. These proved useless, so she ran over to Lavender's equally meagre selection, searching for something that could help. Divination had never been a lucky subject for Hermione, however, and this time proved no exception.

The witch took a deep breath, trying to calm down. She didn't need to look it up. She knew she was right. It was the Draco constellation, she was sure of it. She picked up the necklace again. What had her mum said when she was home for Christmas? "How is Draco doing?" Why hadn't she thought that strange at the time? Why hadn't she noticed all the other times her parents had mentioned him in passing or sent him their love at the end of a letter?

She was not stupid. Surely her Muggle parents politely enquiring about Draco Malfoy's welfare should have merited at least a raised eyebrow. She glanced at the piece of parchment with her list of possibilities, scanning the "Possible" column. Stress, Imperius Curse, Confundus Charm, Memory Charm, False Memory Charm…

She stopped. Memory Charm and False Memory Charm both fit. Obliviated brains protected the reality as they saw it. She would have dismissed her parents comments without batting an eye.

A False Memory Charm was equally possible and twice as likely, though. There was no way she remembered Draco Malfoy being civil to her parents. There was even less of a chance that she could genuinely remember the way his body felt against hers as they lay together in the sofa on her parents' living room. She certainly did not remember his lips on her skin, or his hands… She blushed.

She would murder that conniving, foul, good-for-nothing ferret. Harry wouldn't have to worry about whether or not Malfoy really was part of Voldemort's grand new plan of recruiting sixteen-year-old Death Eaters, because Hermione Granger was going to kill that evil cockroach.

She shoved the necklace into her pocket and ran down the stairs. She headed straight for Harry, ignoring Lavender's indignant look when she bumped into her chair, and pulled her friend aside.

"I need to borrow the Marauder's Map."

"Now?" he asked surprised.

"Now."

"Whatever for?"

"That's my own business. Can you just go get it, please?" She tried to control her fidgeting by crossing her arms, but it was impossible to stand still and she kept transferring her weight from one leg to the other.

"Hermione, is everything okay?"

"Harry, will you please for once in your life just do what I'm asking and lend me the bloody map without an interrogation?"

Startled by her tone, Harry stopped arguing and hurried to the boys' dormitories, followed by the witch. He reached under his pillow and handed her the blank piece of parchment.

"You need to—"

"I know how it works, thanks."

"Hermione, wait."

But she had already ran out the door. As soon as she was outside the Gryffindor Common Room, she looked around to make sure she was alone, and quickly tapped the parchment with her wand.

"I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good." And perhaps for the first time ever, she meant it. She did not pause to consider that he was extremely unlikely to give up the plot simply because she confronted him. She didn't care if it was not the smartest way to go about doing it. She badly wanted to hurt the evil bastard.

_The problem with Gryffindors is that you're all brawn and no brains._

She shook her head, trying to ignore the echoes that she knew were not real, and focused on the map instead. She looked at the Slytherin Common Room first, but he was not there. That was lucky, because in her current mood she'd have gone all the way to the dungeons, and even _she_ couldn't see that ending well for her.

She finally spotted him in one of the galleries on the fifth floor. There was no one else nearby, which was not surprising. While curfew was still a few hours away, the eastern side of the gallery was open to the outside, which in January meant it would be freezing up there.

"Mischief managed." Putting the map away, she tightened her grip on her wand and marched on.

The closer she got to her destination, the fewer people there were around and she hadn't seen anyone at all for at least five minutes before she finally reached the gallery. Malfoy was leaning over the railing, watching the forest below, but he looked up as she approached, alerted by her footsteps.

She barely had time to raise her wand before it flew out of her hand and into his.

"You shouldn't walk around with such a stormy face, Granger. People will think you're out to get them."

"Give it back, you horrid, despicable snake." She tried to grab her wand back, but Malfoy was faster and hid it in one of the pockets of his robes.

"When you look as if you're about to hex me halfway to the lake? I think not."

"What have you done to me?" She shoved him for lack of a better outlet for her anger.

"Get your filthy hands off me, Mudblood," he said.

"Or what, Malfoy?" She shoved him again. "I'm not scared of you."

He grabbed her hands and spun her around, slamming her against the railing and twisting her arms painfully behind her back.

"Maybe you should be, Granger," he snarled. She had barely a second to contemplate the drop from up there before he yanked her hair back, forcing her head up. "Potter should've kept his mouth shut. I have neither the time nor the inclination to humour his little delusions and I certainly don't have time for the likes of you."

"Let go of me!" she demanded, trying to release her hands, but he only tightened his grip.

_You're going to hurt yourself like that._

She gasped, feeling the panic rising in her throat as the memory brushed against her mind. _Not now_ , she thought desperately.

She could feel his breath against her ear when he spoke again. "You're a smart girl. Do the smart thing. Stay the hell away from me." He stepped away from her, letting go of her hands and hair. Fighting the urge to run out, Hermione turned to face him.

"My wand," she said, her voice sounding unusually high-pitched to her ears. She hated that he could see her shaking, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of running away.

Malfoy returned her wand, his cold grey eyes never leaving hers. Fear had replaced her anger, but there was a tiny gloating spot inside her, too. She hurried her steps as soon as she was out of the gallery. She only hoped Harry was still in the common room.

 

* * *

 

The moment he approached the door, Snape knew someone had tampered with his wards. The Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher carefully turned the knob and the door opened with a click. Everything inside was dark but for the fire burning in the corner. He glanced around, but everything seemed to be in its proper place, from the books stacked on his desk, to the locked cabinet.

With a wave of his wand, greenish orbs lit up around the room, casting wavering shadows on the walls and bookcases. He walked to the centre of the office, examining the contents of the shelves to make sure everything was where it should be. It was only when he turned to walk back to his seat that he realised there was someone sitting down on the ground, on the side of his desk, back against the dark wood and legs stretched towards the wall.

"Have you forgotten how chairs work?" he asked, sitting down on his own armchair. Draco did not move or speak, however. From where he was sitting, Snape could barely see his face, but he noticed the boy's extreme paleness and the way even balling up his hands into fists did not stop them from shaking.

Knowing all too well that pressing him to talk would have the opposite effect, Severus Snape devoted the time to preparing for his next lesson. For some minutes the only sound in the room was the soft scratching of the quill against parchment. When Draco finally spoke, his voice was raspy and strained.

"I scared her," he said. "I scared her off and I hurt her. Again."

Snape sighed. He had been trying to get Draco in his office to discuss the Dark Lord's assignment since the beginning of the year with no luck. But throw a girl in the mix, and suddenly he was left having to wonder how a sixteen-year-old had got past his wards.

"You did what you had to do," he said simply. "You know the part you have to play. She'll be safer away from you."

"No one will be safe."

"We all play the hand we're dealt, Draco," he said simply, because it had been true sixteen years ago and it was still true today.

"And if it's not a good one?"

Snape did not even have to think before replying, "Then you rig the game."

Draco's laughter at that was both joyless and bitter.

"Does it ever bother you that he's made monsters of us?" It only highlighted how young Draco really was that he'd utter something that treasonous to someone else. "He's a monster, and you're a monster, and I'm a monster, and everything we touch will eventually turn to dust and ashes."

Snape sneered. There were so many people vying for that particular distinction that a cornered sixteen-year-old did not even begin to rank.


	10. Chapter 10

_Potter should've kept his mouth shut._ Hermione hurried her step, conquering the stairs two at a time. Malfoy might not have wanted to give her much to go on, but he had given her enough. She was out of breath by the time she ran into the common room, which was now empty but for Seamus and Dean, both of them bent over a chessboard.

"Harry?" she asked.

"Bed," said Dean without looking up from the game. Hermione tried to catch her breath, her mind at war over what to do. She couldn't just walk up to the boys' dormitories, but neither did she want to wait until morning to talk to Harry. "Could one of you go get him?" she asked. "I really needed to talk to him."

"It's late; just talk to him tomorrow," Seamus said, his bishop prancing across the board and delivering a powerful blow to the opposing white knight.

Dean's frustrated expression at his knight's demise was a faded copy of Hermione's overcast countenance. She glared at the two concentrated Gryffindors before marching off towards the dormitories.

Under different circumstances she might have had some scruples about going up to the boys' dormitories in the middle of the night, but if the founders had not thought to prevent it by warding off the staircase like they had for the girls' rooms, she was more than willing to take that as tacit agreement.

"Oi, you can't be here!" Ron squeaked, dragging his covers up to his neck.

"No one cares, Ronald," she said without so much as a glance at him, heading straight for Harry's bed. Her friend was already sitting up and reaching for his glasses.

"What's the matter?" he asked with a frown.

"I need to talk to you. In private. Now."

Harry jumped out of bed, following her out of the room without bothering to change. They passed Dean and Seamus on the stairs.

"Quick Seamus," said Dean mockingly. "Call a prefect. There's a girl in the boys' dormitories."

Hermione forced a smile but did not reply. There was a knot in her throat, as the adrenaline from the confrontation with Malfoy turned to anxiety.

"What happened?" Harry asked when they were alone in the common room. Hermione did not reply immediately, casting a wary glance at the entrance to the dormitories.

Harry followed her gaze. "Muffliato," he whispered, his wand pointed at the doors.

_Move out of the way, Draco._

_Hermione could do nothing but stare as mother and son glared at each other, wands raised and ready. Why didn't she have her wand on her? How could she have been so stupid?_

She pressed her hands against her temples, trying to clear out her head. She was so tired of glimpses and pathways that led nowhere. Whatever secrets were locked inside her brain, they could not compete with her need for a clear account of what was going on.

"Hermione, are you okay? Sit down."

"I'm fine," she said, waving his hand away and sitting down on the sofa next to him.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"Malfoy," she said. Harry's face morphed from a concerned expression to a blank mask and Hermione knew straight away she was on the right track. "What do you know about me and Malfoy?"

"What are you asking, exactly?" he said cautiously.

"Don't. Don't try to figure out what I know so you know what you can tell me. Just tell me."

Harry started to say something, but seemed to think better of it and closed his mouth again. The wizard looked from Hermione to the floor and back to her, as if trying to find the right words.

"Whatever it is, just tell me," she asked again, unnerved by his obvious discomfort.

"I don't even know where to start, to be perfectly honest."

"Just start at the beginning and go from there," she said exasperated.

His expression suggested that it was easier said than done, but at long last he finally started talking. Hermione did not speak and she did not interrupt, even at the parts where she badly wanted to ask a question or to laugh at the absurdity of it all. For surely the mere notion of her having been in a relationship with Draco Malfoy was absurd. He hated her. He hated people like her. And she would never give an arrogant git like him the time of day, even if she didn't share Harry's conviction that Malfoy was evil incarnate.

She managed to stay relatively calm during most of Harry's account. It was like hearing someone else's story; it did not touch or affect her. The last part of it had her seeing red, however.

"You thought Draco Malfoy used a Memory Charm on me and you chose not tell me?" she demanded incredulous. "How could you?"

"He was not wrong in what he said. You were happy; telling you would only have upset you for no good reason."

Hermione closed her eyes for a second, trying to control her rising temper. Draco had played Harry, telling him exactly what he knew would make the Gryffindor stay quiet on the subject.

No, not Draco, what was she even thinking? Malfoy. Malfoy had played Harry. Malfoy, who she despised and loathed, and who she most certainly had never been involved with.

"Well, never mind that now," she said with a sigh. "It's immaterial; I don't think it was a Memory Charm."

"It must have been."

"It can't possibly have been. Harry, do you honestly think it is likely that I would get involved with Draco Malfoy of all people? He thinks I'm scum. He would never look at me twice except to say something snide."

"You're ten times the person he is," Harry argued heatedly.

She smiled at his spirited defence. "That's sweet, but it's not what I meant. I'm saying that from his point of view, I represent everything he sees as being below him. I'm Muggle-born, and a Gryffindor. My parents are dentists, for crying out loud. And I would never get involved with a narrow-minded, arrogant, prejudiced ass like him, either."

"Well, he must have some very hidden depths, because I'm telling you, it happened. I'm not the only one who knows about it, either. Dobby knows about it, and you have the letters from your parents that prove that they know about it too."

"Is that why Ron has been in such a mood with me lately? Does he also think I was involved with Malfoy?"

Harry actually looked discomfited at that. "No, that's something else," he muttered.

Hermione raised an eyebrow but did not pursue the issue. Ron's antics would have to wait. "There's another explanation," she said, getting back on topic. "False Memory Charm. It makes far more sense."

"It makes zero sense," Harry retorted, running a hand through his already messy hair. "You know how many people he would need to charm to pull that off? The two of us, obviously, Dobby, your parents… And for what? What could he possibly hope to achieve by it? A Memory Charm is the simplest explanation."

"But it can't be…" Hermione paused, trying to think. Was she just being stubborn and refusing to consider all the evidence? She could feel the necklace still in her pocket; how did it fit into all of this? If he had Obliviated her — and she wasn't saying he had — how could she possibly be getting memories back?

The whole thing was ridiculous and exhausting, and none of it made sense. There was too much she didn't know, and too many untested and untestable hypothesis.

"Wait here," she said to Harry, getting up.

"Where are you going?" he cried after her.

"To get parchment and quills. We're going to write down everything you know and everything I know, and go from there."

* * *

 

There were students scattered around the Great Hall, some busy with books and rolls of parchment, others gathered in small noisy groups that were often the object of resentful glances from the more industrious lot. He was supposed to meet Vincent and Gregory there, but so far neither had deigned to grace the room with their presence, and Draco was not pleased. There was plenty going wrong without needing to add to the list the needless wasting of time because of Crabbe and Goyle's inability to be where they were supposed to be.

He didn't even realise he had been staring at Hermione for the better part of half an hour until Pansy appeared behind him, wrapping an arm around his.

"Stop pining, it's pathetic."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he scowled, trying to disguise his embarrassment by releasing his trapped armed and walking away. Pansy was having none of it, however.

"You and Blaise are among the best and brightest Slytherin House has to offer," she said, walking by his side. "So why is it always Muggle-borns and blood traitors with you two? It's positively disgraceful."

"If you're going to talk in riddles, I suggest you go find someone who's interested."

"Draco, you're not an idiot, so I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm not an idiot either, so kindly do me the courtesy of not treating me like one."

He sighed, aggravated. Pansy had always been too nosy for his or anyone else's good.

"How long have you known?"

"Long enough. You used to be better at hiding it. You're getting careless."

"Don't need a lecture," he said, internally cursing the world in general and female intuition in particular.

"I beg to differ."

"I'm surprised you didn't say anything before now." Pansy had never been one to measure her words.

"I was too busy silently judging you," she said flippantly.

"Please, I beg you," he said dramatically, turning to her. "Go back to silently judging me."

"But this is so much more fun," she said, mockery hidden beneath the sweetest of smiles.

Draco rolled his eyes, wishing he was anywhere but here, having this conversation. "If you're in the mood to meddle, give it a go with Blaise."

"I'm not worried about Blaise."

"You're not worried about me either, Pansy. You're just bored and looking for a distraction."

"Why would you think me that callous?" she asked innocently.

"Because I know you."

"Why, Draco, I'm hurt," she pouted.

"That would be a first."

She smirked. "I _am_ bored. But that is neither here nor there. Your lack of blood pride, to say nothing of taste, is your own problem. That's not what worries me."

"What does?"

She reached for his left hand, lacing her fingers through his, and lifting his hand in hers. "This," she said simply, casting a pointed look at his left arm.

"Now you're treading on very thin ice." He scowled menacingly, letting go of her hand.

Pansy merely rolled her eyes, unfazed. "I'm not the one walking a tightrope with no net."

"If you have a point to make, make it. I have places to be."

"You shouldn't have got involved in any of it, Draco."

A choice would have been nice. "Funny you should say so, because I remember you being very enthusiastic about it at the beginning of the year. You heartily approved of the whole thing."

"You'd be amazed by the amount of things I approve of in front of an audience."

Of all the people in all the world, she was the one he didn't think he needed to justify his actions to. Pansy was just like him. They came from the same place and had been brought up with the same values. No one understood more completely what it meant to grow up in a family like his than she did. "He will build a world where wizards and witches will finally occupy the place they deserve," he said because he knew it would strike a chord. "I will do my part."

"Families like ours," she said cautiously, "they have long memories. You think your family is old? My family predates the Conquest. We too remember the persecutions and the trials and the burnings. If he can deliver a world where we no longer have to hide, I will gladly live in it."

"You just won't lift a finger to make it happen."

She shook her head, dark serious eyes never leaving his. "There are too many variables and I don't like to gamble."

"He is powerful."

"He was powerful before, and you and I both know how that turned out. I don't agree with Zabini on much, but I agree with him on this. Discretion is the better part of valour."

He couldn't fault her reasoning, but it was not that simple. "I stand by my family."

"Loyalty is a Hufflepuff trait."

"But ambition is a Slytherin one. He will shower rewards on those who served him from the start."

"How is your father enjoying the Dark Lord's rewards, Draco?"

"Don't you dare bring my father into this, Parkinson," he growled.

But Pansy was not some first-year he could scare off. She knew him too well and had known him for too long to be impressed by a flare of temper. "Ambition may be a Slytherin trait," she said calmly, "but so is self-preservation. When you jump off a cliff, maybe you think you can fly, but you won't be growing wings on your way down."

"A fine speech, Pansy, but if it came down to it, you wouldn't turn your back on your own either."

"Draco, if it came down to it I would sell you out in a heartbeat, and I like you better than I like most people, certainly better than I normally like my parents."

"No, you wouldn't," he said. He also knew her too well and had known her for too long to take every word out of her mouth at face value. "I wouldn't be getting this whole speech otherwise. You're not so heartless as you like to think, Pansy."

"And you're not so smart as you like to think, Draco." She frowned but did not object when he threw an arm around her shoulders as they started to walk again. "Just make sure you have an exit strategy, it's all I'm saying."

"I've got it covered," he said, wishing it were true.

"And if you're going to fall for Muggle-borns, at least try to shoot for someone good-looking, will you? And preferably not a Gryffindor… Though I guess I should be glad that you at least stayed clear of Hufflepuffs."

"Let it go, Pansy."

"But Granger, really? I mean, the hair alone—"

"I'm begging you."

* * *

 

The library was almost empty by the time Hermione finished her Transfiguration essay. She felt slightly aggravated that it had taken her so long to write it, but she knew her heart hadn't been in it. Finally free of academic obligations, she searched her bag for the lists she and Harry had compiled, and neatly divided the parchment sheets into two small piles.

The pile on the left contained all Harry knew of her supposed relationship with Malfoy. It was not much. According to the wizard, it was a sore subject and they had seldom discussed it, which was something Hermione had no trouble believing. It was not much, but it had facts and dates, which was more than could be said of the contents of the other pile.

The sheets of parchment on the right detailed everything Hermione knew herself, either through letters from her parents or through visions and glimpses. It was a maddeningly random collection of interrupted thoughts, disconnected fragments and out of context recollections. None of it made sense and she had stopped trying to piece it all together.

The pile on the left hadn't changed in over a week, but the pile on the right kept growing with the small scraps of information that came to her almost every day. She should have felt happy about that. After all, more information was better than less information. But information that made no sense was just gibberish, and she didn't need to see it written down to know how useless it really was without something that could give it some semblance of order.

She kept writing, though, hoping that eventually she would have enough for it all to make sense.

She knew that was not likely. She had directed her considerable research skills into finding out everything she could about Memory Charms, exhausting Hogwarts Library's extensive resources on the matter. No book told her anything other than what she already knew: that there was no way to revert a Memory Charm.

She then turned to Professor Flitwick, who always welcomed the questions of an inquisitive mind and had long considered Hermione something of an honorary Ravenclaw. The Charms Master, however, had little to add to what she had read, other than pointing out that on some occasions, torture had been known to break such charms.

Strangely enough, that lifted Hermione's spirits. It meant that Memory Charms did not truly erase memories; these were still locked somewhere inside her brain, however out of reach they seemed.

So she kept writing everything down, however trivial. She could not explain why her memories were coming back to her, nor had she read or heard anything that might explain it either, but she hoped that little by little she would be able to get a clearer picture.

Harry had pressed her to tell Dumbledore what had happened, but she had set her foot down. She did not know enough and she refused to make a decision based on incomplete information. That had resulted in a heated argument where she accused him of not caring about her well-being, only about sticking it to Malfoy, to which he retorted that if she was so worried about her well-being, maybe she shouldn't have been snogging Draco-Freaking-Malfoy in the first place.

They were still barely speaking when Dobby lead them to the small tower room where Hermione and Malfoy used to meet — the house-elf's only significant contribution besides what Harry already knew — but Hermione's panic attack upon entering the room had scared Harry so much that any petty arguments were immediately forgotten.

She had not been up there since, but she knew she should go back there. The first time she had been overwhelmed by the images and sounds flooding her brain, but if there was a chance of remembering something worthwhile, she had to return.

Deciding that there was no time like the present, she gathered her things and left the library. The Gryffindor Quidditch team was at practice, so she couldn't ask Harry to come with her, but it was probably better this way. She was anxious enough without having to worry about having a nervous breakdown in front of an audience again. She loved Harry like a brother, but some things were better dealt with alone.

Touching the necklace inside her pocket, she took a fortifying breath and marched on. She couldn't say whether the time it took her to climb up to the out-of-way tower served to calm her down or only added to her anxiety, but she was strangely numb when she reached the room in question. She paused outside, running her wand along the edges of the door.

There were wards protecting the room. She knew, because she had checked, that the room appeared in the Marauder's Map, but the map never showed anyone as being inside it, as they had realised on their previous incursion. She detected other wards she could not identify and didn't know how to test for. Whose wards were they? Hers? Draco's?

Realising she was stalling, she placed her hand on the handle and walked in. Once inside, she paused a moment, allowing the foreign feelings to wash over her while forcing herself to keep breathing evenly, ignoring the torrent of thoughts and memories swirling around inside her head.

The moonlight coming through the small window did a poor job of lighting the room, but she was glad of the darkness. There were enough things assaulting her senses as it was. Hermione dragged herself to the sofa in the corner. Sitting down helped with the vertigo and, after a few moments, her mind had calmed down enough that she could try to focus on her surroundings.

The upholstery under her fingers felt familiar, and while she could only see the contours of the assorted furniture and random knickknacks scattered around, the reality of the room found echoes inside her brain. She grabbed a pillow, hugging it between her arms, and relaxed into the sofa. She would be there a while.

Only five minutes had passed, however, when the door was flung open and someone walked in, closing it behind them. The flash of blond hair left her in no doubt as to who had entered the room. Draco didn't see her and she did not dare to move or make a sound as he leaned back against the door and fell to the floor with a deep sigh.

Her eyes were adjusted to the darkness by now, and she could easily see him in the half-light. Malfoy buried his face on his hands, his elbows propped up by his bended knees. He was quiet for so long that when he violently hit the cabinet next to him with a closed fist, she actually jumped.

Alerted to her presence by the movement, the Slytherin aimed his wand straight at her as orbs lit up around the room.

"Hermione," he said surprised. He looked even paler than usual and there were dark circles under his eyes. When had Draco started looking so gaunt? Malfoy, she corrected herself. When had Malfoy started looking so gaunt?

Getting over his initial surprise, the wizard jumped to his feet, scowling at the witch. "When have Gryffindors taken to skulking in the dark, Granger?"

"I would hardly described it as such, _Malfoy_ ," she said, trying to sound calm. "After all, lurking in dark places is more of a Slytherin pastime."

"What are you doing here?" He advanced menacingly towards her, but even had she been tempted to move away from him, she could feel the edge of the sofa against the back of her legs.

"It's a free castle."

"Stray cubs shouldn't wander so far away from Gryffindor Tower."

_I'm not afraid of snakes, Parkinson._

Her heart was racing and his presence had doubled her anxiety levels, which had been pretty high to begin with. Little snippets of conversations and images flashed across her brain, too quick to grasp or follow. Hermione was starting to feel light-headed, but she stood her ground.

"I'm so terribly sorry if I interrupted your pity party, Malfoy," she smirked. "You seemed to be having quite a moment there."

For a few seconds, he did not reply, his expression an unreadable mask. She vaguely remembered the way his whole face seemed to change when he smiled, with little wrinkles around his eyes and the illusion of kindness. He wasn't smiling now, however, and all the lines of his face were sharp and angular.

"Get out," he said simply, moving to the side.

"I beg you pardon?" she said surprised.

"You either get out or I'll throw you out. And trust me, Granger, you don't want to go with option B."

"I have as much a right to be here as you do, and I was here first." It was a child's argument, and she knew the moment she said it that it was a dumb move. He was offering her a way out and she should've taken it, because at the moment she was having a hard time standing up, let alone thinking straight. Sometimes she truly was too contrary for her own good.

He walked up to her with all the quiet deliberation of a cat stalking his prey. She looked up at him, trying with all her might to ignore the fact that the room was spinning, and that Draco being so close only made it all the much harder to breathe.

"Would you like to rethink that position, Granger?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

_Everything will be okay, Hermione. I promise._

_But everything was broken and everything was wrong, and she knew none of it would ever be okay again. And every time Ziggy's sobs reached her through the open door, she had to struggle not to give in to her own powerful need to sob. Pride was all she had left, and she wouldn't give it up._

_For all the good it did her._

She pushed past Draco, suddenly desperate to get out of the suffocating room. But she was only halfway to the door when the dark spots at the edge of her vision and the lack of oxygen became unbearable. She couldn't breathe. Try as she might to draw a breath, she couldn't breathe and the room was spinning and she couldn't breathe.

She threw her arm to the side, reaching for something to lean on, but instead strong arms grabbed her, lowering her slowly to the ground. She pulled desperately on her tie, trying to loosen it, because surely she would die, and who had ever devised such a ridiculous uniform that it needed a tie? Oh god, why couldn't she breathe?

It took her a moment to feel the warm hand moving across her back, and it took her longer for the calm words to make sense inside her panicked brain.

"Everything is okay, Hermione," Draco said softly. "Just relax, I'm here. It's just a panic attack, you'll be okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my brilliant and talented friend Cali, who has been very patiently (and sometimes not so patiently) waiting for a new chapter for two weeks and who, as of today, is no longer a teenager. *Inserts really sappy and totally out of character birthday message* 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed the chapter ;)
> 
> Pansy's comment about jumping off a cliff was inspired by a quote by Ray Bradbury: "Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off. Build your wings on the way down." Pansy is somewhat more pessimistic ;)
> 
> Many thanks to my beta Raistlin_The_Wizard, who stayed up insanely late to beta this so I could post it tonight.


	11. Chapter 11

Never before had Draco felt so utterly useless as right then, kneeling besides a shaking Hermione on the cluttered tower room.

"It's going to be okay. Just breathe. It's going to be okay." Even as he struggled to think of a way to help, a detached part of his brain kept warning him that this was no time to turn into a bloody gentleman.

Hermione was too focused on trying to breathe between frantic sobs to even notice the strangeness of Draco Malfoy whispering soothing nothings while the world came crashing down around her, but he knew the moment would come when the awkwardness of the situation would catch up with them.

He had to get a grip. It was just a panic attack and she would get through it, as _he_ had many a time before. It was scary but it would not kill her, even if it felt otherwise at the moment.

He knew the facts, and he knew what he had to do, but no amount of cold logic or reasoning could drag him away from the distressed witch. Hermione curled her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms, and he fought the urge to put his arms around her, knowing that even under different circumstances it would be poor help.

It seemed to last forever, but it was probably no more than ten minutes before the sobs subsided and breathing became easier. It was a few minutes more before she looked at him with a shocked expression that fully conveyed the bizarreness of the situation.

"Can I have my hand back?" he asked curtly, trying to keep his expression blank.

She looked from his face to the hand firmly clasped in hers. She was squeezing it so hard that her fingers were white, and he had lost all feeling in it for the past five minutes.

"Sorry," she mumbled, letting go and reaching for the wooden table next to her, using it to pull herself up. She almost lost her balance again, and it took all of Draco's strength not to reach out to her.

"Sit down, Granger," he sneered, leaning against a grandfather clock with his hands tucked into his pockets, where they could do no mischief of the sort that would further complicate an already delicate situation. "You look like you're about to topple over. Again. And I'm not catching you this time."

"Why did you?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. She glanced at the door, but seemed to think better of it and sat down on the sofa, hugging the discoloured pillow between her arms.

"Did what?"

"Catch me. The first time."

"Reflexes. The mark of a great seeker." He could've hit himself the minute he said it. This was no time for jokes. She was fine. Everything was fine. He had to leave.

Hermione snorted. "You're not funny, Malfoy."

No. But he could be. A little funny. "I am a man of hidden talents, Granger." He was also a man of hidden idiocy who needed to stop talking and start moving. To the immense chagrin of the part of him that still retained some common sense, he took out his wand instead and conjured a cup of steaming tea, handing it to the surprised witch.

"Hemlock?" she asked with a small smile, taking it anyway.

"Chamomile. To stave off another bout of hysterics." One snide remark for each act of kindness. That was sure to restore balance to the universe.

The witch ignored the jibe, however, either too tired to get sucked into an argument or utterly unsurprised by Draco Malfoy being unpleasant.

"Nonverbal conjuration," she said, taking a sip. "Impressive." It was an olive branch, and while he could not take it, he was also too tired to argue. He missed her. He was worried about her. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to touch her, move closer to her, put his arms around her. He compromised by pulling up a chair and sitting across from her, as far away from the witch as he could without seeming to be doing it on purpose.

"You aren't the only star pupil, Granger," he smirked. "I'll have you know I'm extremely smart."

"Ravenclaw smart," she commented absentmindedly, sipping the tea.

Draco froze. "What did you say?"

Hermione stared back at him, serious brown eyes that looked too big on her small face. "Nothing," she said quietly.

"Why are you here, Granger?" Why hadn't that been his first question? Hogwarts was too vast for it to be a coincidence. How had she ended up there of all places?

"That's no business of yours, Malfoy," she said quietly. Her hands were still shaking even as she held the mug, and her voice sounded far away and tired, but there was steel behind her eyes.

There were no coincidences. When she had gone to him before, he had assumed Potter had been running his mouth. But there was something else at play here. Something more. "I think differently."

_Legilimens._

_Pain and confusion. Memories half-remembered and thoughts that led nowhere. Lists of facts scribbled on a piece of parchment. Facts that did not fit together; a reality that did not exist. Butterfly kisses and wandering hands in a familiar living room. Spells in the night, and a small creature sobbing in the snow. Maddening thoughts that teased and prodded but never led anywhere._

Hermione gasped as Draco dug deeper into her mind, frustrated that he was good enough to cast the spell wordlessly, but not good enough to get a clear picture. And then suddenly the blueish hues of the memories turned a deep shade of red, and he tasted the metallic edge of blood as something hard and heavy hit him on the side of the face.

"Do not ever do that again!" Hermione was standing now, her shoulders shaking with rage. The mug had shattered when it hit the stone floor, sending shards of china flying, and Draco was covered in tea, but he was too shocked to even care. She could remember. Not everything. Not by a long shot. But she had some memories. How? He had been so careful. He had been so sure he had cast the spell properly.

"How is it possible?" he asked, unable to look away from the furious witch.

"You tell me," she said, crossing her arms in a pose that was maddeningly familiar. "It's your handiwork, is it not? You did this to me."

"What do you remember, Granger?" His father was in Azkaban, there was nothing she could remember that could hurt him further, but he would not allow any harm to come to his mother.

"Answer my questions and I will answer yours," Hermione said stubbornly, sitting down on the edge of the sofa.

It didn't work like that. It couldn't work like that. He had to make sure that whatever she knew, whatever she may remember in the future, that she would be in no position to tell anyone else. What she knew was still enough to land him and his mother in hot water at a time when one step out of place would spell disaster for him and his family.

It never rained but it bloody poured.

Hermione flinched when he reached for his wand, tightening her fingers around her own. "Drying spell," he explained, ignoring the painful knot in his throat as he dried himself. She would be a fool not to be apprehensive, and Hermione was no fool.

His mind was blank as he searched for a solution. He had no stomach for another scene like the one at Hogsmeade Station, and it cost him nothing to admit it. Everywhere he turned, he could see loose threads and new complications, and he didn't know how to fix any of it. His whole life was upside down, and things kept unravelling faster than he could put them to rights.

There were too many balls up in the air, and he was no juggler.

And then it hit him. He didn't need to look very far for inspiration to fix this particular problem in a way that would keep his secrets safe without further harming Hermione. He only needed to emulate the upstanding example set by the adults in his life.

"Tell you what, Granger," he said, sitting down again. "I will tell you what you want to know. But what I have to say cannot travel any further."

"You have my word," she said as if she meant it, serious brown eyes locked with his. But it was not that simple. Gryffindors might be honourable, but some secrets were too big, and it was in a Slytherin's nature to leave nothing to chance.

"Not good enough," he said leaning forward, his arms resting on his legs. "I want assurances."

"What sort of assurances?" she asked with a frown.

"The Unbreakable Vow." He waited for a reaction, but Hermione was quiet for a few seconds. She did not seem surprised nor particularly shocked, only pensive.

"What is in it for you, Malfoy?" she asked finally.

His reasons were many and varied. He had selfish reasons and selfless reasons, and reasons she would not believe. There were reasons tied to the pain he had caused unknowingly and reasons for the blows he had dealt deliberately.

Regardless of why the spell had failed, her pain was his doing, and he would try to fix that if he could. Even if knowing was only a different sort of pain.

The things he had done paled in comparison to the things he still must do, but if he could right this one thing even a little, then he would.

She would not believe his reasons, even if he could find a way to explain them to her, so he replied with a version of the truth she would believe:

"I'm not saying there's anything worth knowing in that stuck up brain of yours, Granger," he sneered. "But for argument's sake, let's say there is. I won't have you running your mouth left and right with half-baked hypothesis cooked up by an over-active imagination."

"You don't care what I know, as long as I keep quiet about it," she summarised, seething.

For all her outrage, Draco was sure she could see the merit of the idea. "It's a generous offer, Granger."

"It's damage control, Malfoy."

"Maybe," he conceded with a shrug. "But it gets us both what we want. Worse deals have been made."

"And if I refuse?"

"You can, of course," he said nonchalantly. "But you and I both know that Memory Charms do not break. Not in any meaningful way. Not without enough Cruciatos to make you wish you didn't have a brain, let alone one capable of remembering anything at all. Maybe you'll remember in time, but I wouldn't hold my breath." And to drive the point home, he added: "Half-visions that reduce you to a sobbing mess whimpering in a corner are not memories worth having."

The witch's anger was almost a physical force in the room with them, but Hermione had always been remarkably restrained for a Gryffindor, and she kept her temper now.

"You have your deal, Malfoy," she said, straightening her back and glaring at him. "But I want assurances of my own. I will keep your secrets if you vow to the truth of what you have to say."

He stayed in the room long after she had left. His parting words had been a warning not to breathe a word of it to Potter or the deal was off, and she was welcome to her own little room in St. Mungo's, where she could piece together the shreds of memory at her leisure in between crying fits. There was a quiet dignity in the cold long stare she gave him before leaving, a silent reminder that she may be willing to make a pact with the devil, but she was not to be cowered by a snake.

Telling her would be the easy part: the recitation of a neat row of orderly facts that would explain the unexplainable and paint a sterile and sanitised picture of what had happened. He was equal to such a task.

No, what gave him pause even then was the possibility of the knowledge triggering the rest of her memories. Knowing was knowing, it shouldn't matter whether she could actually remember any of it. But it did matter.

Because if she truly came to remember, Hermione would hate him. When she remembered it all, she would hate him.

She hated him now, of course, but it was not the same. Now it was Granger hating Malfoy, an impersonal sort of hate that sprung out of _what_ they were, rather than _who_ they were. When she finally remembered, Hermione —  _his_ Hermione — would hate _him_.

He jumped to his feet and marched out of the room, shaking off the mantle of self-pity that still hung heavy around his shoulders. Guilt, worry, pain, these were things that weighed him down and he had no use for them, so he tucked them away in a distant corner of his mind.

He needed a Bonder for the spell and he knew his choices were slim, and none particularly good.

He couldn't ask Snape. The professor in Severus would put a stop to it, while the Death Eater in him already knew more about Hermione than Draco was comfortable with.

Crabbe and Goyle weren't an option either. Even if either of them could pull off the spell — and Draco wasn't entirely sure that either could — they were an even more dangerous choice than the former Potions Master.

Snape's ambition was tempered by age and experience. He knew who he was and where he stood, and he didn't need to prove his worth either to the Dark Lord or to his fellow Death Eaters. Even if Aunt Bella thought differently.

Vincent and Gregory, on the other hand, still had something to prove. They still needed to carve a name for themselves and they wouldn't hesitate to do it at Draco's expense, should the opportunity present itself. Loyalty only stretched so far these days.

As for Pansy, while she was like a sister to him, he trusted her as much as he trusted anyone, which was to say not very much and not very often. She knew about Hermione, but that was all she knew, and it was never very safe to suggest the existence of secrets around Parkinson.

Going to her for help would mean questions. Questions he couldn't answer and questions he would rather not answer, and Pansy would be happy with neither. She would find her information elsewhere if she didn't get it from him, and he didn't want her asking the wrong questions to the wrong people.

No, what he needed was someone who didn't care enough to ask questions. Someone with secrets of their own.

And he knew just the person.

What had Pansy said? _You and Blaise are among the best and brightest Slytherin House has to offer, so why is it always Muggle-borns and blood traitors with you two?_

Blaise was smart enough to take precautions, but he was also arrogant enough to be careless, and by the following evening, Draco knew all he needed to know.

Though much as he would like to take credit for it, it certainly had helped that he was able to engage the assistance of one of Hogwarts's most unlikely spies. "The ginger one has freckles in the strangest places," giggled Myrtle, doing a somersault near the ceiling. "And the sounds he made when the tall, dark one put his—"

"Thanks, Myrtle, I get the gist of it," Draco interrupted before the ghost could elaborate on things Draco was perfectly happy being ignorant of. "Where are they?"

"Prefects' bathroom, on the fifth floor." She chuckled, apparently still very much picturing the scene she had left behind. "There are enchantments on the door to keep people away."

That wasn't a problem, as he had absolutely no intention of going in. There were enough nightmarish images inside his brain without needing to add to them the vision of a naked Weasley.

"Thank you very much, lovely lady," he said gallantly. "Your help has been inestimable."

"It was quite fun, really," she said with an uncharacteristic grin. "Who knew a mouth could be put to so many uses." And with that she burst into another fit of giggles, which had the advantage of allowing Draco to make his departure without the usual delays of repeated promises to return and visit often.

It didn't take him very long to get to the Prefects' bathroom. For once, all the staircases were lined just right, and no pathways decided to change halfway through his journey across the castle. No one could be unlucky all the time, not even him, and he was fairly sure the two boys were still where Myrtle had left them.

There was a large Gothic window on the other side of the corridor, across from the carved wooden door, and Draco made himself comfortable on the windowsill, hoping for — and rather expecting — a short wait. Unless he was a very poor judge of human character, Weasley did not strike him as the sort of guy who'd last very long.

But Gryffindors were nothing if not contrary, and almost an hour later, Draco was still waiting. He was bored, impatient, and starting to wonder whether there was another way out of the Prefects' bathroom. Of course, it was entirely possible that Blaise had suddenly come to his senses and decided he'd much rather drown Weasley in the giant bathtub. Seeing as that would foil his plans, Draco tried very hard not to wish for that particular outcome.

At long last, Blaise sauntered out of the room, hands in his pockets, without bothering to check if the coast was clear and without so much as noticing the fuming Slytherin sitting just a few feet away. Draco waited for the door to close behind his friend and, certain that no sound would reach the boy still inside the Prefects' bathroom, said in a clear voice:

"When did you get made a prefect, Zabini?" Even though it lasted only a second, the horrified expression on Blaise's face when he turned was almost worth the wait. "Because I know you're not a Quidditch Captain, and I'm fairly certain this is not what the founders meant by 'Head Boy'."

Quickly regaining his composure, Blaise chuckled, assuming an amused expression. "If I knew we had an audience," he said, walking up to Draco, "I'd have charged tickets."

"Is your friend coming out any time soon?"

"That's doubtful," Blaise scoffed.

"I meant out of there." Draco rolled his eyes, nodding at the door.

"I know what you meant," Blaise replied, leaning casually against the wall. "But I'm afraid I quite exhausted the poor fellow, so I don't believe he'll be making an appearance for quite some time."

"That's certainly disappointing." Draco yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "Anyone I know?"

Blaise raised an eyebrow, casting his friend a suspicious look. "When did you start sharing Pansys's interest in idle gossip?"

"When I discovered I could profit from it." And just then, the door opened and Ron Weasley marched out, stopping suddenly in his tracks at the sight of Draco Malfoy. Draco couldn't have timed it better if he tried. "Had a nice, long bath, Weasley?" Draco taunted despite himself. His business was with Blaise; he had no time to waste on scum like Ronald Weasley. But some things were second nature.

Weasley's colour matched his hair, as a deep shade of red spread across his face all the way to the tip of his ears. The embarrassed Gryffindor seemed at a loss for what to do, so he reached for his wand, pointing it at Draco with a shaking hand.

"Scamper, Weasley," Blaise snarled. "I'll take care of this."

"But—"

"Bugger off, will you?" Blaise and Weasley locked eyes, the glare of the first meeting the scowl of the latter. For a moment, Draco thought the Gryffindor would stand his ground, but with a last venomous glare at both Draco and Blaise, he shoved his wand back into his pocket and stomped off.

Abandoning his previous attempts at casualness, Blaise glowered at Draco. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"Nothing overly painful, I assure you," he said, getting up. "I need a Bonder for the Unbreakable Vow." And so that they understood each other, he added: "Someone whose discretion matches my own."

Blaise smirked. "The Unbreakable Vow. That's a bit drastic, isn't it? With whom?"

Draco saw no reason to lie. He would know soon enough. "Hermione Granger."

"The Mudblood?" Blaise sneered.

"Blood traitor is only one step up from Mudblood, Zabini." Knowing a warning when he heard one, Blaise dropped the issue.

They walked in silence for a few moments, no other sounds around but their steps echoing in the stone halls. Draco was the first to speak.

"I thought Weasley had a girlfriend," he remarked. He didn't even know why he knew this. He really was spending too much time with Pansy.

Blaise shrugged, replying unfazed: "He's trying to make a point."

"About girls?"

"About Slytherins." There was silence for a few more seconds, until Blaise added, "Of course, it might be a point better made if he weren't sucking my cock on a weekly basis."

* * *

 

The tower room looked different during the day. It was as if the assorted knickknacks and old furniture were just that, a harmless collection of discarded props from a different era. They were covered in dust and held nothing scarier than spiders, and maybe the occasional boggart tucked away in some dark and damp corner.

If there were still memories hiding somewhere in the battered wood and faded upholstery, they had all been chased away by daylight, and now it was just a room like any other in the castle: silent, still and void of memories that were always just out of reach.

Hermione marched into the centre of the room, daring her brain to start acting up. There would be no repetition of the scene from two days ago, she would make sure of that. She was determined. She was prepared.

Part of her was still not sure this was a good idea, however. In fact, part of her was quite certain that taking the Unbreakable Vow with Draco Malfoy, regardless of reason, was lunacy. Dangerous lunacy at that. And what good was information that she could not use?

But she needed answers and he could provide them, and that was good enough for the moment. She would deal with the after when she came to it. First, she needed to know.

She hadn't said a word about any of it to Harry, and not just because of Malfoy threatening to call off the deal if she did. Her friend would never have agreed to it, and while she didn't need his permission, she would have needed his complicity. So she said nothing, keeping her secrets closer than he deserved and closer than she would've liked.

She heard the footsteps before she saw the two boys approaching through the open door. For all her determination to stay calm, she couldn't help but tensing up at the sight of them. Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini: Slytherins, pure-bloods, and general tossers. This was such a terrible idea.

"Granger," Malfoy said by way of greeting as he walked in. She never got a chance to reply, because the moment Zabini approached the door frame, he was hurled backwards across the corridor, landing with a thud against the opposing wall.

All of them were so surprised that for a second no one moved, and then several things happened at once. Zabini fumbled for his wand, his face contorted into a grimace, and yelled a curse straight at Hermione. The astonished witch cast a Shield Charm on instinct, just as Draco Malfoy interposed himself between her and Zabini, casting a shield of his own. The other Slytherin's curse hit neither shield, however, being stopped at the door by whatever had prevented his entrance.

"I am going to kill that filthy little bitch," yelled the furious wizard, jumping to his feet.

"You will settle down, Zabini," Draco snarled with his wand still raised against his friend. " _Everyone_ will settle down," he repeated, looking from the other Slytherin to Hermione.

Her heart was racing in her chest, but she forced herself to lower her wand, mimicking Zabini's slow movement. The wizard's scowl was directed both at her and at Draco, but he deliberately put his wand away, stopping just outside the door to shake the dust off his robes.

"Let him in, Granger," Malfoy sighed, putting his own wand down.

"I did not stop him!" she said indignantly. "It wasn't my doing."

"There are wards around the room," Zabini observed, one of his hands tracing an invisible line midair.

"They're reacting to you." Malfoy walked up to her, standing closer than she would have liked. "They're your wards, and they're reacting to you. You will need to let him in."

She took a deep breath, looking around the room with fresh eyes. So they _were_ her wards after all. It was no surprise, then, that they had welcomed Blaise Zabini with such a reception. The only surprise was that they hadn't given the same treatment to Draco Malfoy. She clearly needed to work on her spellwork.

She forced herself to relax, focusing on her breathing. Magic wasn't just something they did, it was part of who they were. In a way — and though they didn't tend to think of themselves as such — wizards and witches were magical creatures, just like unicorns or house-elves. There was an instinctive quality to the most basic aspects of magic, and while its manifestation was mostly observed in children, who lacked the formal training to channel their powers in a more effective way, there was no amount of civilisation that could truly stop a human being, magical or otherwise, from being a creature of instinct.

"Come in," she told Zabini when she was sure the wards wouldn't repel him again. The wizard took a careful step forward, testing the willingness of the room to actually let him in. When nothing happened, he walked in all the way.

"No more wards for you to hide behind, Granger," he grinned wolfishly.

"Enough of that," Malfoy said impatiently. Though he was out of her line of sight, she could feel the warmth of his body on her back. "We have work to do. Blaise, shut the door."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it took me so long to get a new chapter out. I usually aim to write a new chapter every week or at least every couple of weeks, but this time I blinked and almost a month had gone by! Bad Kel! I slacked for two weeks, almost died of the common cold on the third week (Disclaimer: 'almost dying' may be a bit of an overstatement...) and unexpectedly got sent to London on work on the fourth week. Now this last one actually turned out to be incredibly fun and I managed to get an afternoon to go and do the Harry Potter Studio Tour, which was beyond amazing! So, so much fun. I cannot wait to do it again! I spent a small fortune on the gift shop and I am still kicking myself for not getting a wand (they had replicas of the different characters' wands, and Hermione's was just sooooo cute). 
> 
> I'll try to slack less with the next chapter, I promise!
> 
> About this chapter, I really struggled with the start. I may have written at least five different versions of it until I finally got it the way I wanted it. The section with Blaise was a lot of fun to write, though I feel like I always treat poor Ron quite terribly whenever he makes an appearance, which is a pity, cause I really do like Ron as a character. Sorry, Ron...
> 
> This particular chapter is dedicated to my beta Raistlin, to whom I still owe a Rabini one-shot. I'll do one eventually, cross my heart!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed the chapter! ~Kel


	12. Chapter 12

Blaise's week wasn't going well. On Monday his mother had written to inform him that she and husband number seven were no longer going to Italy for Easter, which meant he was expected to make an appearance at home over the holidays. Blaise saw no reason why his mother's lack of consistency when it came to travel plans should interfere with his pathological need to avoid her, but Mrs Zabini was of a different mind, and what Mrs Zabini wanted, Mrs Zabini invariably got.

Weasley had proved an effective distraction from all the family drama — evidence that even scatterbrained blood traitors had their uses — but Blaise's good mood had not survived his encounter with Draco-Master-of-Blackmail-Malfoy.

Blaise Zabini had fairly modest ambitions for a Slytherin; mostly he just wanted people to leave him alone. He didn't care for them, or their problems, or their supposed-to-be-secret involvement with illicit cult-like organisations. He certainly did not care for their love lives — particularly when these seemed complicated enough to warrant drastic measures like the Unbreakable Vow.

Overall, he had little interest and no sympathy.

No. Blaise's week had not started well, and being stuck inside a dusty old tower room with the most conceited Muggle-born in Hogwarts was doing nothing to improve it.

"Are you sure you know how to cast the spell?" she asked for what felt like the tenth time.

"A child could cast the spell, Granger," he sneered. "Now kindly get on with it; I have better places to be."

Casting the spell did not worry him. Maybe the power of life and death should not hang on a spell a seven year old could cast, but magic did not always contemplate consequences. The Unbreakable Vow was an act of willingness. It was freely given and freely taken, and a wizard with half of Blaise's talent could have cast it successfully.

What was starting to get on his nerves was the amount of time it was taking for them to even get started. For an hour now, Granger and Malfoy had discussed, debated and dissected the terms of the Vow until Blaise wasn't sure who he wanted to hurt more: Granger, who — worse than being Muggle-born — was possibly the most anal retentive, stubborn and prickly creature he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on; or Draco, who seemed to take pleasure in being as much of an arrogant, difficult prat as he could.

After an hour, they had managed to agree on one point alone: that whatever Draco revealed to Granger regarding her forgotten memories was to be kept a secret. It had taken them two minutes to agree on that one thing, and it had all gone downhill from there.

Granger wanted Draco to vow that whatever he revealed to her was the absolute truth, and while the wizard was prepared to do that, he demanded in return that she vow to keep secret whatever memories she recovered herself. The witch had balked at that, arguing that he had no right to dictate what she could and could not do with her own memories.

Draco promptly agreed that he had no such right, but that if she wanted him to talk, she'd agree to his terms — all his terms — or find herself a different source of information. With neither one willing to give in an inch, they had spent the past hour trying to out-insult the other, and Blaise had to admit to being impressed. Blood status notwithstanding, Draco was no match for Granger's exceedingly large vocabulary.

Under different conditions — which is to say if Malfoy hadn't blackmailed him into being part of this whole circus — Blaise might have been somewhat curious as to the convoluted circumstances that had led to the present display of theatrics. As it was, all the curiosity was buried under a thick layer of impatience and aggravation.

"Fine," Granger said at last, glaring at Draco. "I'll agree to your ridiculous terms if you vow to answer truthfully whatever additional questions I may have about the things you tell me."

"Done." The self-writing quill sprung to life, filling the parchment with minute lines of text.

"And," the witch continued, "I want a memory. When you're done telling me what you have to say, I want a complete and truthful memory of my choosing."

Draco hesitated and the quill came to a sudden halt, hovering still over the sheet of parchment. "I'll agree to that," he said cautiously, "if the memory is covered by the secrecy terms."

"Deal." Blaise could've sworn there was a certain smugness to Granger's half smile, but it was gone in a second. Not that he cared, one way or the other. He just wanted to get this thing over with before these two thought of something else to disagree about.

He waved his wand around, clearing the centre of the room. "On your knees," he said — incidentally the same three words that had got him into this whole situation to begin with.

Draco reached for Granger's right hand, and both of them knelt on the dusty wooden floor, facing each other. Blaise touched the tip of his wand to their clasped hands and nodded at Draco, who started reciting the words agreed upon. The air was heavy with magic that clung to their hair and clothes, and there was no sound in the tower room except for the clear, steady voices of Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. Every time a vow was made, a fiery thread shot from Blaise's wand, binding their hands together.

In the end there were four vows: one for secrecy, one for truthfulness, one for answers to questions, and one for a complete and truthful memory of Granger's choosing. Three was a powerful magical number, and the purist in Blaise was affronted by the sheer inelegance of having four vows. This was the danger of dealing with Muggle-borns — one was forced to put up with their complete disregard for the finer points of magical tradition.

"It is done," he said, lifting his wand. The four thin threads shone brightly for half a second more, before fading into singed lines around the two hands.

 

* * *

 

There were things he did not share, things he kept to himself. There were memories he guarded jealously as something precious that a Hermione who could not see any good inside Draco Malfoy would not understand, but he tried hard to tell enough of the truth that she would know how they had ended up at Malfoy Manor that night in December. There were words for the time they had spent together, and words for the secrets they had kept from their friends. There were words spared for the tower room and its wards, and words for a Christmas spent among Muggles.

The words about Death Eaters at Malfoy Manor were surprisingly easy to share. There was understanding in Hermione's expression when he came to that point in the story, but no surprise. His father was a convicted Death Eater, and Hermione was smart enough to expect the obvious.

He could feel the words about Hogsmeade Station burning his throat on their way out, but he kept his tone even and his face blank, and he kept talking. Ziggy, the duel, the Memory Charm: he told her everything as thoroughly as he could. He knew Hermione well enough to know that was the memory she would ask for, but he could not help but hope that if only he painted as clear a picture as possible, she would ask for something else. He didn't want her to see it. He would give much and more to be able to forget it himself.

Draco would have answered all her questions even if she had not bound him to it — once you jump, there's no point in trying to avoid the fall — but he had compromised more than he had intended when he had agreed to provide her with an actual memory.

"What happened to the house-elf?" she asked when he stopped talking. Draco glared at her, suddenly feeling unreasonably angry.

"Seriously, Granger?" he sneered. "I just told you I used a Memory Charm on you after you found Death Eaters at my parents' house, and your first question is about the damn house-elf? Great to see you have your priorities straight."

"Answer the question, Malfoy," she demanded.

"She's fine. She's at the manor." Ziggy shook uncontrollably if he was in the room, and she flinched any time he went near her, but whenever he was in the manor, the elf bent over backwards trying to satisfy his every wish, as if by trying hard enough to please him she might avoid a repetition of the scene that had left her with an ugly scar running across her hand. It made him sick.

Hermione's expression of disbelief made it clear that she did not think their definition of fine was the same, but having satisfied herself that no further harm had come to Ziggy, she moved on to a different question.

"What happened the night of the Yule Ball?" She hesitated, trying to find the right words. "How did _this thing_ start?"

With mistletoe and a kiss. "I was drunk and you were pissed off at Weasley." Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "You wanted to get back at him and somehow you thought I would annoy him more than Viktor Krum."

"I would never—"

He rolled his eyes, interrupting the indignant witch. "You did, Granger. I have to tell the truth, remember? You'll know the second I lie, because I'll drop dead. There was no big romantic gesture, just large amounts of alcohol, hormones, and Weasley being a prat."

"Educate me, Malfoy. How much alcohol does it take for a prejudiced ass like you to forget he's kissing a Mudblood?"

Surprisingly little. "Firewhisky has been known to make people do strange things," he said with a shrug.

The Slytherin party had started down in the dungeons, well before the ball. Millicent and Montague had managed to get several bottles of elf-made wine and firewhisky past Filch and were only too happy to share. While he hadn't drunk much before the party, a well-placed Undetectable Extension Charm on an ordinary flask had meant he was well provided throughout the ball.

Pansy had disappeared with Blaise halfway though the dance, and Draco was left to his own devices. He had come upon Hermione by the lake. The witch was sitting on the pier, her feet dangling just above the water. While it was not snowing, the night was cold, and even at a distance he could see her shivering in her flimsy blue dress robes.

"Trying to decide whether to freeze or drown, Granger?" She jumped at the sound of his voice and hurriedly wiped the tears with her hands. "Because if you dive in, you can easily manage both."

"Leave me alone, Malfoy." She had looked lovely at the beginning of the ball, even by Pansy's high standards, but the tears had messed up her make-up, and the knot at the back of her head was half undone, with locks of hair falling down her neck and over her face.

"Where are Wonder Boy and Brainless Twit?" he asked, looking around for her usual sidekicks.

Her laughter at that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "Brainless Twit," she muttered. "That's appropriate."

In his present mood, that was enough to endear her to him, even if just for a moment. In a fit of gallantry, he took off his cloak and dropped it on top of her head, before sitting down next to her. There was enough firewhisky and elf-made wine running through his veins that the cold did not bother him.

"What are you doing?" she asked incredulous, adjusting the cloak around her shoulders.

"I'm sitting down, Granger. What does it look like I'm doing?" There was a splashing sound as his shoes hit water. Cursing his manly height, he lifted his soaked feet. Being shorter, Granger did not have to suffer such indignities.

" _Why_ are you sitting down, Malfoy?" clarified the exasperated witch, clearly uninterested in his aquatic predicament.

"I'm feeling unusually charitable towards the low-born." He surveyed the area around them. Emptying the lake was probably a step too far.

"You're drunk," she accused.

"Yes. But that has no bearing on my ability to stand up." He pointed his wand towards the pier, whispering a levitation charm. The wooden structure shook but did not budge.

"Will you stop that?" demanded Granger, forgetting she was upset long enough to assume her usual scolding-school-teacher look.

"My feet are wet." He splashed some more, to stress the point. Before the witch could object, he tried the spell again, but the pier rocked so violently that it almost threw them off.

And then Hermione did the most extraordinary thing. She laughed. Half-frozen and sitting next to a boy who had always been on the wrong side of civil in his behaviour to her, she laughed. "Honestly," she said, shaking her head, "this is the most ridiculous situation."

Without bothering to ask permission, she grabbed his wand and cast a spell on the poles sustaining the pier, causing them to grow a few extra inches until his feet were suspended above the water. And then she gave it back, as if a Muggle-born using the wand of a Malfoy was the most commonplace thing under the sky.

"You're welcome," she said with a self-satisfied grin. He stared at his wand like he had never seen it before. 10" of treacherous Hawthorn that would yield to the first Muggle-spawn who tried to use it to raise a pier. It was preposterous. It was outrageous.

It was a rather clever choice of spell.

"Don't look so smug, Granger, it doesn't suit you." He searched for the elusive flask in his many pockets, trying to ignore the fact that it did suit her rather well. "What did he do?"

"Who?"

"The Weasel. What did he do?"

"Do you care?"

"I save you from freezing and you amuse me with tales of Weasley being a buffoon." He took a gulp of firewhisky before handing her the flask. "It's what I call a fair trade."

Hermione snorted but took the flask anyway. "Firewhisky," she said after tasting its contents. "An upstanding student as always, Malfoy."

"If you're going to look so disapproving, give it back." He tried to grab it, but the witch moved the flask out of his reach. He smirked when she took another sip, but did not comment.

"Ron wasn't happy that I went to the dance with Viktor Krum," she said after a few minutes of silence. "He was rather nasty about it, actually."

"And you decided to get even by freezing to death on the margins of the Black Lake?" he sneered. "You Gryffindors are too fond of martyrdom."

"I wasn't going to freeze to death," she protested. "I just wanted a _quiet_ place to think." She stressed the word 'quiet', glancing at him sideways.

Always oblivious to hints he did not wish to take, Draco pressed on. "And now that you had time to think, what will you do about it?"

"Only a Slytherin to think I should do something about it," she said, looking down her nose at him.

"Drop the 'holier than thou' attitude, Granger" he scoffed, stealing back the flask. "As if you haven't been sitting here plotting bloody vengeance for the past hour."

She smiled, despite herself. "I'm not saying I was and I'm not saying I wasn't. But seeing as you're such an expert on the topic, what would you suggest?"

"Easy. He was a prat about you going to the dance with Krum; find something that annoys him even more."

"Such as?"

Suddenly feeling rather inspired, he reached out behind her ear and conjured a small twig of mistletoe, handing it to her with a flourish. "Here's a thought."

"Smooth," she said with a smile that could be seen either as flirtatious or as signifying that there wasn't enough firewhisky in the world. Probably the latter, but Draco didn't let that discourage him. He was a Malfoy, and Malfoys always got the things they wanted. And that very minute, he had just decided he wanted her.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the thought of how much it would annoy Potter. Maybe it was the fact that this was the first time in his life that he had spent any amount of time talking to someone like her, and it hadn't been terrible.

She held her breath as he leaned forward, but did not pull away when his lips brushed against hers, softly and briefly — an invitation. He grinned and moved back just enough to be able to look her in the eye. "What do you say, Granger?"

It sounded like a dare, and in a way it was. Hermione's cheeks were flushed and she hesitated for a moment, her eyes wandering down to his lips and back up again. For a moment he thought she might back out.

But Gryffindors were brave and foolish in equal parts, and when she finally kissed him, there was no hesitation and no doubt, only a fierce determination expressed with smooth lips and warm breath. He remembered wrapping his arms around her, pulling her closer against him. He remembered her smiling against his lips and he remembered the way her fingers felt running through his hair.

Mistletoe and a kiss. That's how it had started. Almost a year before the night at Malfoy Manor. Almost two years before this very moment in the tower room.

"You claim I wanted to get back at Ron," Hermione said, "but he never learnt about it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you chickened out and I sobered up," he said dryly. "Neither of us was exactly keen on advertising what happened."

"That I can easily believe," she said with thinly-veiled contempt.

"Spare me the attitude, Granger. The faster we get this over with, the faster we can both be on our merry way. So out with it. What's next in that inquisitive brain of yours?"

In the end, they had spent another three hours cooped up in the claustrophobic tower room. They had gone over the whys and the hows and the how comes of the whole year they had been together, until Hermione could map out the whole thing to her satisfaction. He was shocked that note-taking of some sort was not involved.

The whole thing was frustrating and exhausting, and Draco's patience — never his strongest attribute — was starting to wear thin. The entire exercise twisted and bent out of shape something that had once been beautiful, until it was as broken as he felt. By the end of it, he was beginning to see why she had thought it important to bound him to answer all her questions. If it weren't for the threat of imminent death, he'd have walked out by now. He was starting to wonder whether he shouldn't walk out anyway.

"Are we done, then?" he asked impatiently when the witch seemed to run out of new things to ask.

"Not quite," she said, getting up. Despite the combative attitude, she too looked exhausted. It almost made it hard for him to resent her as much as he did just then. Almost. "You still owe me a memory."

He hadn't forgotten, though he wished she had. He fought the urge to wipe the blood off his left hand against his robes. There was no blood there, though sometimes he could still feel it, warm and sticky, running down his palm and between his fingers.

He conjured up a small crystal vial, just big enough to hold one memory. "What will it be?" he said as if daring her to choose the one memory he did not wish to give.

She moved closer to him, her eyes fixed on his left hand, as if she too could see the blood that was not there. She took a deep breath, before looking him in the eye.

"I want the memory of the day you became a Death Eater."

 

* * *

 

It was well past midnight and the whole castle seemed asleep. If someone had told her three years ago that she would become such an expert at avoiding detection while breaking curfew, she would not have believed them.

She might not remember all the practice she apparently had in such activities, but she knew instinctively when to stop and listen, and when to duck for cover. She knew Filch's usual routes, and the spots where she was likely to come across Peeves. She knew the patterns of the staircases without having to think about it, and even if she could not remember it, she knew how to move so as to blend in with the shadows created by the wavering torches.

And because Harry knew — and Harry seldom thought to keep such things from her — she knew both that Dumbledore was away from the castle, and the password to the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office. She listened in at the door, trying to make sure the office was indeed empty. Failing to hear anything, she went in.

Everything was dark and quiet inside the room. Hermione cast a worried glance at the portraits on the walls, but most of them were either asleep or entirely unconcerned by the young Gryffindor's presence. Fawkes eyed her curiously but made no sound and did not move from his perch behind Dumbledore's desk.

Feeling the soft edges of the crystal vial inside her pocket, she opened the cabinet where the Pensieve was kept. Malfoy being a Death Eater had been Harry's pet theory since the beginning of the year, but Hermione had never truly believed that to be the case, not even when she had stood in front of the Slytherin and asked for that particular memory. She had just wanted to make sure. It was her way of making it up to Harry for keeping him out of the loop about the deal she had struck with Malfoy. She had not actually thought there was anything to it.

Malfoy's shocked expression had quickly morphed into one of cold fury when he realised she had tricked him. She had argued long enough and dragged the issue long enough that when it came to it, he had agreed to her own terms without realising that "a complete and truthful memory of her choosing" was not restricted to memories about the issue at hand.

That small victory was almost worth more to her than the memory itself. He had taken something from her, so she had taken something back, and outsmarted him to do it. It had been underhanded and sly, and perfect. A Slytherin ploy to deal with a Slytherin prat.

She looked at the small vial on the palm of her hand. What use had Voldemort for a sixteen-year-old Death Eater? Hermione uncorked the bottle and poured its contents into the Pensieve. After tying her hair back, she bent forward and, taking a deep breath, immersed her face in the silvery mist swirling in the basin. The moment she did, the floor disappeared under her feet as she was pulled forward, falling into the dark nothingness of the Pensieve.

When she landed, it took a few seconds for the ground to stop spinning and for her eyes to get used to the light. She was somewhere in the middle of the gardens surrounding Malfoy Manor, and it was strange to see the world blooming in what would have been summer at the time.

She looked around, trying to spot Malfoy, but he was nowhere to be found. It was the buzzing of the snitch that made her finally locate him flying above her head. He dived after the snitch just as a house-elf Apparated next to her. Spotting the elf, Malfoy abandoned the pursuit of the golden snitch and landed only a few inches away from Hermione.

"What is it, Misty?"

"Master Draco, sir," started the elf nervously. "Madame Lestrange is at the house…"

"So?" asked Draco impatiently when Misty seemed to hesitate.

"Madame Lestrange is upsetting the Mistress, sir." Misty looked very intently at her feet, shaking from head to toe at her temerity.

Draco glanced at the house and kicked off from the ground. "You can go, Mist," he shouted down before flying towards the manor. He was much faster in his broom than Hermione would normally be on foot, but the laws of physics did not seem to apply inside a memory, and the witch was right behind him when he ran up the steps leading to the main entrance.

She could hear raised voices even before Draco opened the library door. The two witches inside were so busy arguing that neither looked at the wizard when he walked in.

Narcissa, looking distraught, stared incredulous at her sister. "Absolutely not," she said with a tremulous voice. "I forbid it."

Bellatrix sniggered, running her fingers along the spines of the books. "You have no say in it, Cissy. The Dark Lord commands it."

"The Dark Lord does not issue commands in this house." Narcissa's voice was now steady and she looked almost regal when she stood up to face her sister. "He's my son. My only son, Bella. I will not have him dragged into this."

"It is a great honour," said the older witch calmly, in a tone at once conciliatory and dangerous.

"It is no honour." Narcissa crossed the room to where Bellatrix was standing, her voice strained under the effort to keep it even. "He wants to punish Lucius for failing to acquire the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries and he thinks he can use my son to do it. I will not stand for it."

"Mother,—"

"Be quiet, Draco," Narcissa snapped.

"You know what I'm looking forward to, Cissy?" Bellatrix asked with a predatory smile. "To find our darling niece in some dark alley one day. How long do you think I can make that ratty little thing scream before it kills her?"

Narcissa paled visibly. "Bella…" she said in a feeble voice.

"Rudolph thinks not very long, because surely a Mudblood's daughter has got to be weak," Bellatrix continued, prancing around the room as if recounting a particularly amusing anecdote. "But Andromeda always had spunk. I'm sure I can make her daughter scream long enough for her voice to break. And then I'll break her too." The witch stopped moving and turned towards her sister, serious and deadly. "That's how we deal with traitors in this family, Narcissa. And don't you forget it."

There was fear in Narcissa's eyes as she held Bellatrix's gaze, but there was also the impotent rage of someone who knew herself cornered. Even if the witch had it in her to stand up to her sister — and it was clear to Hermione that she did not — Voldemort would not take no for an answer. Narcissa could protest all she wanted, but they were empty words that carried no real weight, and everyone in the room knew it.

Bellatrix walked up to Draco, smiling fondly at the impassive wizard. Malfoy did not move when the witch kissed his cheek. "Smile, my darling," she said cheerfully. "Your mother has glad tidings to share with you." Bellatrix glanced at her sister, grinning with poorly-contained glee. "We'll be back tonight."

The moment she left, Narcissa waved her wand in frustration and the library door flew shut with a bang that shook the frame. Draco raised an eyebrow, but did not comment.

"Misty," he called instead. The house-elf Apparated immediately, ears bent low in anticipation. "Tea," he ordered. Misty Disapparated silently and Draco walked up to his mother. "What did Aunt Bella mean?"

For a few seconds, Narcissa did not reply. She gazed at her son with a worried expression and ran an affectionate hand through his unusually messy hair. Draco was slightly taller than his mother; though he had her fair colouring, he did not really resemble the witch.

"The Dark Lord," she said at last, "has decided to grant you the Dark Mark." Malfoy's blank face gave nothing away. When he did not reply, his mother continued. "He has a mission for you. Something only you can achieve. He has chosen you to be part of his trusted inner circle."

"It is a great honour," Draco said carefully, echoing Bellatrix's words. And then he smiled, the smug Malfoy smile that Hermione was only too familiar with. She wondered briefly whether the smugness was a matter of arrogance or habit. "Don't worry, mother," he said, holding her hand. "This is our ticket back to the top. You'll see."

"This is not a game, Draco," she warned with a frown.

"I know," he said, kissing her cheek. "Everything is going to be okay."

He left his mother to Misty's ministrations and walked out. His smile fell the moment he left the library, but that very second the memory changed, and the previously bright living room was now cast in shadows. Even though it was summer, there was a fire burning in the great fireplace, and the torches lit around the room cast wavering shadows on the walls and on the floor. Hooded figures stood whispering in corners. Hermione had no trouble picking out Malfoy from the crowd because he was the only one with his head uncovered. She could not identify the Black sisters, but she knew they had to be somewhere in the room.

The whispering stopped the moment Lord Voldemort marched in, followed by Nagini and Peter Pettigrew. It was hard to say who the slimiest creature was: Pettigrew or the snake. Voldemort stopped by the fireplace and the Death Eaters flocked around their master.

"My friends," he hissed, "my loyal friends. It is such a pleasure to have a new addition to our merry little group. Draco," he called, an arm extended towards the boy. The young Malfoy smirked and crossed the room, kneeling with his head bent forward before the darkest wizard of their time. "I hear you have a burning desire to make yourself useful."

"My lord, my only wish is to serve you faithfully." Nagini circled Draco, hissing softly as she examined him.

"A smooth talker, like your father," Voldemort said. "Let's hope with better results."

"Yes, my lord."

"Your arm, young Malfoy." Draco pulled his sleeve back and held his left arm out to Voldemort, who took it with one hand. With the other, he touched the tip of his wand to the wizard's arm. Some of the Death Eaters chuckled when Draco gasped as the Dark Mark spread across his pale skin, faded at first and then progressively darker until it was fully formed. "Rise, Malfoy," Voldemort commanded, "and join your brothers and sisters."

The assembled Death Eaters gathered around Draco, patting him on the back and congratulating him, as Voldemort looked on with a self-satisfied smile, like a benevolent overlord. The whole affair made Hermione sick to her stomach, and she wasn't the only one. There was a hooded figure standing away from the crowd, shoulders slightly slouched as if standing took too much effort. And though she could not see her face nor any identifying marks, Hermione was sure it was Narcissa Malfoy.

Her suspicions were confirmed when the witch snapped her fingers and half a dozen house-elves Apparated with trays carrying food and drinks. Just then a distant clock started chiming the time and even without looking, Hermione knew the day had come to an end, and with it, the memory.

It was unfortunate, though not surprising, that it had contained no details of the mission Voldemort had entrusted Draco with. If it had, Malfoy would never have let her leave the tower room, vow or no vow. It was a chilling thought, but she had no time to dwell on it, for the moment her feet touched the stone floor of the Headmaster's office, she heard a familiar voice.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore admonished, "it is the height of bad manners to intrude upon an old man's study without asking permission."


	13. Chapter 13

Hermione sat down on the upholstered chair set before the Headmaster's desk, trying very hard not to fidget under Dumbledore's piercing gaze. Abandoning all pretence of sleep, the portraits on the walls watched with interest the scene unfolding on the floor below.

"Well, Miss Granger," Dumbledore prompted, "I believe that in a situation such as this, an explanation of some sort is traditional."

"Yes, sir. Well, you see, sir…" she started, but the sound died in her throat. She had no lies to tell, no excuses to make. Her secrets were both too big to share and too big to keep secret.

There was no doubt in her mind that Malfoy had been responsible for what had happened to Katie Bell. And while she did not know what he was after, if someone else got hurt it would be partly her fault for not speaking up when she had the chance. Vow or no vow. But despite Malfoy's opinions about Gryffindors' penchant for martyrdom, she was seventeen years old and she did not want to die.

Sitting behind his desk, surrounded by the pomp and grandeur of the Headmaster's Office, Dumbledore was Hogwarts — old, unchangeable and larger than life — but there was an amused glint in his eye that brought him back to the level of mere mortal.

"Miss Granger," he said, "if there is something Gryffindor House has always prided itself on is the ability of its members to fabricate perfectly believable excuses under pressure."

Hermione shot the Headmaster an astonished look. "Excuse me, sir?"

"Of course," Dumbledore continued as if she hadn't spoken, "we lost some great talent in that department when the Weasley twins dropped out. Still, one must make do. May I interest you in a sherbet lemon?" He took the lid off a round silver bowl filled with sweets and offered it to the witch.

"No, thank you, sir," she replied, unable to look away from the Headmaster's blackened hand.

"Ah, yes. Ghastly sight, isn't it?" Hermione blushed, looking away. Dumbledore put down the bowl and picked up the crystal vial from the table. "I would ask you what is in this memory or who it belongs to, but I have a feeling I may be disappointed in expecting a reply."

"I'm sorry, sir," Hermione said. And she was.

"And if despite your objections I should use the Pensieve to examine the memory myself?" Dumbledore asked, turning the vial between his fingers while eyeing it thoughtfully.

That would not bode well for her longevity. "I would rather you wouldn't, sir."

"I see. Does this memory include something I should be informed of, do you think?"

"Yes, sir."

"But you will not tell me what it is?"

"No, sir."

"Nor will you grant me permission to view the memory?"

"No, sir."

"We find ourselves in a rather curious situation, Miss Granger."

"Honestly, Dumbledore," said Phineas Nigellus Black, unable to contain himself any longer, "you don't need the girl's permission to confiscate the memory. All this mollycoddling of students — Muggle-borns no less — it's absolutely disgraceful. In my day—"

"Oh, be quiet, Phineas," Dilys Derwent cut in. "It is not your place to comment." That was all it took for all the portraits to start arguing — nine centuries of Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts trying to out-talk each other.

"Enough," said Dumbledore, trying to control the ruckus. "ENOUGH!"

Everyone fell silence at once, though Black's stormy countenance suggested there was much more he'd like to say on the subject.

"Miss Granger, what can you say?" Dumbledore asked, not unkindly.

Hermione did not reply straight away, taking the time to carefully go over the exact words of the vow. "I cannot say," she started slowly, "what is in the memory." She reached into her pocket, feeling the edges of the pendant with the tips of her fingers. "Nor can I say who it belongs to." She deliberately placed the necklace on top of the desk, between her and Dumbledore. "But I think you should give more credit to Harry's suspicions."

Dumbledore set down the vial and picked up the necklace, running a finger over the smooth surface of the pendant. When he spoke, it was with a deliberate calm that suggested that he too weighed his words with care. "Professor Snape keeps me better informed than you and Harry give him credit for. I am fully aware of Mr Malfoy's new affiliation."

"Sir, if you know, then you must realise that—"

"Now, now, Miss Granger," Dumbledore interrupted. "Let us none of us say too much. Trust that I know precisely what goes on in this school, and that there are bigger things at play here than you, Harry or even Mr Malfoy are aware of."

Hermione bit her lip, knowing she had almost said what she couldn't. But while the interruption did highlight just how much Dumbledore knew, it did not make her feel any better. The whole thing put her in mind of McGonagall's giant chessboard, and to the pawns it made little difference who moved the pieces.

"Yes, sir," she said simply, knowing that further questions would be pointless. She took the vial back from Dumbledore, but the Headmaster did not return the necklace immediately, eyeing it thoughtfully while turning it between his fingers.

"You should take good care of this, Miss Granger," he said. "A truly effective amulet is a rare thing indeed."

"It's just a necklace," she said, feeling more uncomfortable than she had up until that moment.

"And a wand is just a stick," replied the Headmaster. "Magic is more than a flick of the wrist and a few choice words, and it is not always calculated or deliberate. Love is a powerful force, Miss Granger, and it changes magic in ways that we can only begin to understand."

Hermione blushed, accepting back the necklace with muttered thanks. Love was a big word. Too big a word for whatever had happened between her and Draco Malfoy.

"Now, as to the matter of trespassing," Dumbledore said in a lighter tone. "Prefects ought to set an example for the school community. The least I expect of my students is that should they have the audacity to break into the office of a teacher, they would do so in such a way as not to get caught. Therefore, ten points from Gryffindor for poor planning. Don't beat yourself up, Miss Granger; it happens to the best."

Hermione suppressed a smile. "Yes, sir. Very sorry, sir." The muttering of the portraits was at once amused and disapproving, and Phineas Nigellus Black looked positively mutinous at the thought of a student getting off so easily after such an infraction.

 

* * *

 

Hermione badly wanted to hate Malfoy. For what he had done to her, for what he had done to Katie, for having sided with murderers and monsters instead of standing his ground. But hate too was a big word. Too big perhaps for what she felt.

Maybe a different Hermione would have felt more strongly about what he had done to her. Maybe a Hermione who could remember everything she had lost might feel her hate justified. But she didn't remember. Not really. Not enough. The things he had told her were the story of a stranger. Someone else's words painting someone else's reality.

In spite of everything she knew — or maybe because of it — she couldn't help but feel sorry for him. He had made terrible choices, but if it were her family on the line, she could not claim she would make better ones. He was still a bully and a bigoted git — those charming traits he had only himself to blame for — but no one deserved to end up so cornered.

Pity only stretched so far, however. Whatever his reasons, they did not absolve him of the consequences of his actions. And Hermione remembered Katie Bell, even if Dumbledore did not. The Gryffindor Chaser was not just collateral damage. She was a person. Someone's child, someone's sister, someone's friend. She was more than a pawn in Voldemort's master plan, and more than an unfortunate accident in Dumbledore's grand scheme of things.

Hermione glanced at her notes. She still did not know how Malfoy had managed to be in two places at the same time — in Hogwarts, doing detention with McGonagall, and in Hogsmeade, handing Katie the cursed necklace. The simplest answer was, of course, that he wasn't. Someone else had delivered the necklace to Katie on his behalf. Who didn't matter. It might have been one of his friends, but since it had happened in Hogsmeade, it could just as easily have been someone else entirely. Voldemort and his cause had many sympathisers, and the Malfoys had deep pockets.

No, what she wanted to know was who Malfoy would trust enough to confide in. Snape was out. It was clear from the conversation Harry had overheard that there was only so much Malfoy was willing to tell his fellow Death Eater. But he had to trust someone, and there were four entries in her list of possibilities: Crabbe and Goyle, who never knew what side was up unless Malfoy was in the room; Pansy Parkinson who he had known since before they could walk; and Blaise Zabini, who he had trusted enough to tell of his relationship with a Mudblood.

Puzzles on top of puzzles and one of them was bound to have some of the pieces she was missing. She would never get a straight answer out of Malfoy, but every chain had a weak link. Even an unpleasant git like him needed someone to talk to, to boast to, to share things with. One of those four would know something, but they would never talk to her…

Hermione reached for the necklace inside her pocket and set it on top of the parchment, Dumbledore's words echoing inside her head. Love might be a step too far, but even she could not deny that there had been something. Malfoy had been… fond of her, maybe? She frowned at the awkwardness of the thought just as a plan started to take shape inside her head.

She jumped off her chair, earning a very stern "shhhh" from Madam Pince. But for once Hermione did not care. She had a plan. Maybe not a good plan, but a plan nonetheless. She gathered her things and rushed out of the library, making her way towards Slughorn's office.

 

* * *

 

Hermione jumped back with a squeak when the contents of her cauldron exploded, all over the table. Ron and some of the Slytherins sniggered and Slughorn walked over to her with a disapproving expression.

"Tut, tut, Miss Granger," he said. "This is most unlike you. Let's try to focus, m'dear."

"Sorry, Professor." She cleaned the mess with an impatient wave of her wand, aggravated by her own clumsiness.

"Are you okay?" Harry whispered under the bubbling sounds of the cauldrons around the room.

"Fine," she replied curtly, tossing two eyes of newt into the now empty cauldron. There were times for a case of nerves, but this was not one of them. She would not back down, and she would not give in to the powerful temptation to take the time to come up with a different plan, a better plan. It was the plan she had, and she would make it work. And if she could manage to avoid blowing up the dungeons in the process, all the better.

When Slughorn dismissed the class, she stayed behind, waiting for Harry to leave first with Ron. She had hoped Malfoy would leave alone as well, but when he walked out the door he was accompanied by Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott. She hesitated only for half a second before following them out.

"Malfoy," she called. "A word."

The three boys turned at the sound of her voice, Malfoy with his usual scowling expression, Zabini affecting a look of amused curiosity, and Nott with the air of haughty self-importance only a Slytherin pure blood could summon to full effect.

"Friend of yours, Draco?" Nott asked mockingly.

"Trust me, mate," Zabini said before Malfoy could reply, "you do not want to get in the middle of that. Come on."

Malfoy waited until the other two Slytherins had disappeared at the end of the corridor before opening the door to an empty classroom. His stormy expression did not bode well, but stormy faces did not scare Hermione Granger. The moment the door closed behind them, Malfoy grabbed her arm.

"Are you an idiot?" he asked, furious. "Do you know whose son he is? Use your brain, Granger. Stop trying to attract the attention of every Death Eater around."

"Get your hands off me, Malfoy," she growled, snatching her arm out of his grasp. "I'm not afraid of him. And I am certainly not afraid of you."

Malfoy took another step towards her. "Then you haven't been paying attention."

She bit back a sharp remark. Arguing was not part of the plan, though it did seem inevitable whenever they were in the same room together. It was in Malfoy's nature to try and get under her skin, and she should know better than to let him.

"I don't want to argue," she said, setting down her book bag. "I want to talk."

"You and I have nothing else to talk about."

"Well, tough luck, because you made sure I had no one else to talk to."

Draco rolled his eyes, but did not reply and did not turn to leave. Instead, he too dropped his bag and leaned against one of the desks, his arms crossed, as if waiting for her to go on. Hermione hesitated. Now that she was here, she did not know how to take that one final step.

She resisted the urge to over-think it. The only way was forward, and she would be brave even if she wasn't entirely sure she was being smart. There was something reassuring about the weight of the necklace in her pocket, and while she did not think Dumbledore was right, she hoped he wasn't entirely wrong.

She hoped that maybe-not-quite-but-close-enough love was enough, and that Malfoy didn't push her away. Because it would spoil her plan, because it would bruise her ego, because somewhere deep inside of her there was still the Hermione who thought him wonderful. Even when he was a git. Even when he drove her crazy.

And while she couldn't remember — not really, not enough — sometimes that other Hermione would peer behind her eyes and for a single moment, both realities would sync and she would ache for him — for the boy who had hurt her, for the boy who was hurting, and for a world where it all might have been different, and right, and good.

She took two careful steps towards him, and then she took two more until they were standing face to face. Malfoy did not speak, and he did not move, his blank expression betrayed by the tension of his shoulders.

She raised a hesitant hand and gently touched his face, refusing to back down before his inscrutable gaze. There was a hardness to him that hadn't been there the year before and for a split second she wished she could remember more. She wished she could remember him as he had been then.

"What game are you playing, Granger?" he whispered. Rather than replying — and before she lost her nerve — Hermione leaned forward, standing on the tip of her toes, and kissed him. That very moment something exploded right outside the door, causing Hermione to move back, startled.

"PEEVES!" came Filch's angry voice. The poltergeist cackled loudly, his voice echoing between the stone walls of the corridor outside. "You get over here, you useless good-for-nothing figment!" Loud steps got louder and then lower as Filch followed Peeves away from the classroom where they were.

Hermione laughed nervously, unable to stop herself. Of all the corridors in all the castle, there had to be a commotion right outside that one. Muggles didn't know how easy they had it that their plans did not have to account for the random, unpredictable chaos unleashed by a poltergeist on steroids.

But just as she started to fear the moment lost, Draco wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her back against him, his mouth finding hers, demanding and hard. She tried to think, but her brain was too full of him — his lips, his tongue, the feel of his hands and arms, the warmth of his body against hers.

His thumb brushed against the skin of her cheek in what could have passed for a caress, but his urgency left little space for gentleness. Draco turned them around so that she was the one standing against the desk, and Hermione did not think to object when he pushed her on top of it. Every inch of her skin knew him in a way that went deeper than conscious memory, and her body responded to his with a will of its own. That was not the plan — it was very much not the plan — but just then she didn't care. She could be a fool for five minutes without lasting harm coming to the world on account of it.

 

* * *

 

Draco was tired of fighting. He didn't care that it was unwise, selfish and more than a little foolish. There would never be enough seconds in this moment to make up for all the things he had lost, or for all the things he had taken from her, but he pushed the thought away, focusing instead on her, on the way she ran her fingers through his hair while kissing him, on the pressure of her legs on either side of him, on the way she always smelled slightly of parchment and ink.

The cynical part of him — never very far away, even now — knew it was a trick. He didn't know what, or how, or why, but he knew her, and he knew a trick when he saw one. And he knew that when they stopped kissing and she walked away, he would only feel more keenly the space left by her absence. He had never known how much he felt that emptiness until that very moment.

She couldn't remember — not really, not enough — but he could, and he felt her loss in a way she could not feel his. And when she walked away — or when he did, because he had to — she would take with her another small part of him.

But not yet. Not just yet. He held on to her like a drowning man, as if she could somehow fill all the empty parts of him. He knew it was an illusion. She couldn't fix him; he couldn't even fix himself. But he could pretend otherwise for five minutes without the world crashing down around him on account of it.

 

* * *

 

Shivers ran down her spine, and her skin felt hot under his touch. Hermione sighed as Draco nuzzled her neck before kissing it, one of his hands busy undoing the top buttons of her shirt, while the other rested on her left leg, partially concealed by the hem of her skirt.

For the first time since learning what had transpired the night of the Yule Ball, she felt some measure of affinity with that younger Hermione whose actions had before seemed so foreign to her.

She knew, pulling Draco's head back and reclaiming his mouth with her own, that things that were wrong could still feel wonderful, and that sense was just as easy to misplace as any other inconvenient part of the human psyche.

But things that were lost could just as easily be found. She was walking on ice, and she did not forget it, even if she wished she could. "Malfoy," she croaked, out of breath. "Don't, we can't…"

The surprised hurt was evident in his expression, his grey eyes unusually unguarded. It lasted for only a moment, however, before his features assumed their customary smirking expression. "No more talking, then?" he asked, mockingly, tucking a rebel curl behind her ear. "Do let me know whenever you feel like having a chat again, Granger."

He moved away, taking with him all the warmth that until a few seconds ago she had felt tingling against her skin, and Hermione had to stop herself from calling him back. There was nothing for her down that path, and she reminded herself of that even as she felt an unexplainable urge to start crying.

Hermione didn't move until he was out of the room, but as soon as the door closed behind the wizard, she jumped off the table, grabbing her bag and looking for the small vial she knew had to be somewhere in that confusion of books, quills and parchment. Having found it, she carefully placed the single blond hair inside it, making sure to cork the vial securely before placing it back in the bag, next to the flask of Polyjuice Potion she had stolen from Professor Slughorn's office.

 

* * *

 

"Are you and Malfoy back together?"

"Excuse me?" Hermione looked up from her book, glancing worriedly around in case someone had overheard Harry's question. But it was still early in the evening and the common room was full of people, making individual conversations hard to overhear over the general noise.

"You heard me." Harry sat next to her, his back to the room. "I saw you together on the Marauder's Map this afternoon."

"Are you spying on me, now?" she asked indignantly.

Harry sighed. "I'm not spying on you, I'm spying on him, but you were kind of hard to miss. What's going on, Hermione?" There was concern in his voice, and Hermione knew he meant well, but there were too many things she could not say for her to feel comfortable saying anything at all.

"We're not back together. It's just… complicated." She closed the book, looking for something to say that would satisfy her friend without giving too much away.

"You've been avoiding me," Harry said in a neutral tone. She tried to deny it, but he interrupted her. "No, you have. After learning what he did to you, you've been avoiding me. And I don't… I don't know if that's because you're still mad at me for not telling you what I knew, but—"

"I'm not mad," she cut in, covering his hand with hers. "I'm not mad, I promise. It's just… complicated. There are things I can't tell you. Things I wish I could tell you, but I can't, and I'm sorry."

"Things about Malfoy?" he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"Yes," she replied with a sigh.

"Hermione, if you know something, you have to tell me." This was why she had been avoiding him. Harry could never let anything go, specially when it came to his current obsession with Draco. "He's dangerous, and he's up to something. If you know something—"

"I. Can't. Tell you." She struggled to keep her voice low. Her life was enough of a mess without Harry being difficult on top of it.

"But—"

"Harry, do you trust me?"

"That is not the—"

"Do you?" she pressed.

"I would trust you with my life."

"Then trust me," she said, feeling the full weight of that responsibility. "I will tell you what I can, when I can." Defeated but unconvinced, Harry stopped arguing the point, reaching for her Transfiguration book and opening it randomly, for lack of anything better to do.

The wizard was not wrong about Malfoy. He was more right than he knew, but she couldn't tell him that. She wondered why Dumbledore didn't confide in Harry. The Headmaster knew far more than he let on, and it seemed to her that everything would be much simpler if he would only tell Harry all the things the Gryffindor wanted to know.

"I need your help," she said, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen between them.

"With what?" Harry asked, putting down the book.

"Tomorrow night, I need you to keep Malfoy away from the Slytherin common room for a few hours."

"Will you tell me why?"

"No. Will you do it?"

Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Yes, I'll do it. But I hope you know what you're doing."

She hoped so too.

 

* * *

 

It was cold in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and the ghost was nowhere to be seen. Hermione closed the cubicle door behind her and, opening her beaded handbag, fished inside it for the things she'd need. The set of Slytherin robes was easy to find, being close to the surface, but for a moment she thought she might have forgotten the Polyjuice Potion. It only took a couple of Summoning Charms, however, for her to find everything she needed. She hanged the robes from a peg on the wall and set everything else on top of the toilet seat.

It was hard to forget what had happened the last time she had taken Polyjuice Potion, and while this time she was absolutely sure of the origin of the hair she was using, she couldn't help but feel nervous at the prospect of another botched transformation.

But she hadn't come this far to turn back at the last minute. Carefully removing Draco's blond hair from its vial, she dropped it inside the flask with the Polyjuice Potion, which immediately started to bubble, turning a pale shade of silver. She checked her watch. Harry would keep Malfoy away for the next two hours. It would have to be enough.

She quickly undressed, goosebumps covering her skin. Malfoy was much taller than she was, and with much broader shoulders. Transforming inside her own clothes would be a recipe for disaster. After putting away her clothes and without giving her mind time to reason herself out of it, she drank the potion in one gulp. Her bones started to shift and change immediately, and she had to lean on the cubicle walls not to fall. The foreign sensation spread from her chest to her extremities, and she gasped while her mind tried to cope with the feeling of skin melting and stretching.

It seemed to take a long time, but it was probably no more than a couple of minutes before the small cubicle stopped spinning. Her hands felt alien as she touched her face, feeling the angular features of Draco Malfoy. Her arms were impossibly long and the floor was much farther away than she remembered. She had just glanced down to observe this very fact, when she quickly looked back up again, blushing furiously.

She tried not to look at the Dark Mark etched on the lower part of her — his — left arm. It was a sombre reminder that there was a difference between bravery and recklessness, and that she was walking a thin line between both.

The robes fitted perfectly — she had asked Dobby to "borrow" a set of Malfoy's own — and she quickly enchanted her prefect badge to resemble his. Finally, she put all her things away inside her purple handbag and tucked it behind the toilet, so it was mostly out of view.

There weren't many people wandering around the castle at that time, and other than a couple of scared-looking first years, Hermione didn't see anyone on her way to the dungeons. She hoped to find a stray Slytherin to ask the password, but she wasn't particularly worried about the meagre amount of passers-by. If the lack of a password were enough to keep people out of their common rooms, Neville would have had to spend most of their early years at Hogwarts living under a staircase somewhere.

As luck would have it, she was almost at the entrance to the Slytherin common room when she came across a young Slytherin boy chasing a cat. The boy came to a sudden halt upon spotting her, before proceeding in the general direction of the feline at a more sedated pace, eyes downcast.

"Excuse me," she said. The sudden voice of Draco Malfoy startled both her and the boy, but Hermione quickly regained her composure. "Sorry, I think I forgot the password to the common room. What is it, again?"

The boy opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no sound came out. It was either fear of Malfoy or surprise at having the Slytherin Prefect be civil to an underclassman, but Hermione had no time to figure out which. "Kid, we're burning daylight here, what's the password?" she snapped.

"Amaryllidoideae!" The boy had turned white. "It's Amaryllidoideae!"

"Thanks," she muttered, walking away.

On entering the Slytherin Dungeon, she was immediately struck by how different it felt from the Gryffindor common room. Gryffindor Tower was cosy and homey, and the oranges and browns of the furniture and tapestries contributed to its warm environment. The Slytherin common room was certainly grand, with leather couches and heavy dark cupboards, but it was also gloomy and uninviting. The greenish light from the lake and from the lamps scattered around the room gave it a melancholy atmosphere that the bright red flames from the fireplace could not entirely dispel.

Even so, there was a group of girls giggling conspiratorially in a corner, bent over some magazine, while in a different part of the room, a group of students commented on the game of Wizard's Chess currently underway between a third and a fourth year. There were people studying, and some reading, and a girl Hermione had never noticed was trying to transfigure a teacup into what was probably meant to be a hedgehog.

Hermione did not think of herself as a prejudiced person, and she was smart enough not to have expected to find Slytherin students torturing house-elves and discussing their evil plan to take over the Muggle world in-between Potions assignments, but she was still taken aback by the utter normalcy of it all.

None of her intended targets where anywhere to be seen. Crabbe and Goyle would have been easy to spot even in a crowded room, but she took a moment to check that Zabini and Parkinson really were not around. It was disappointing, but she had considered the possibility. It mattered not. There were other avenues to explore. It took her only a few moments of observation to discover the correct entrance to the boys' dormitories.

While the Slytherin dormitories kept the same colour scheme as the Slytherin common room — green and silver against dark wood and grey stone — they did not feel as cold and soulless. There was a Weird Sisters poster in one corner, and a colourful hand-made quilt added a touch of colour to one of the beds. Piles of books vied for space in a nightstand that had seen better days, and a lone snitch kept buzzing back and forth across the ceiling.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy looked back at her from the framed photograph next to Malfoy's bed — Narcissa sitting in an elaborate chair, with Lucius standing beside her, a hand on his wife's shoulder. They hardly moved in the frame, all evidence of magic contained in the occasional glance Lucius cast at the youngest Black sister, the only moment where his haughty expression softened into something other than the perfect blend of arrogance and self-satisfaction.

Hermione knelt at the foot of the bed, pulling Malfoy's trunk from under it. It was locked, but she had expected it — she had even hoped it was. There was no point in locking a trunk with nothing valuable inside.

Reaching for her wand, she examined the wards, her mind running through the spells she'd need to counter them. It took her longer than she expected to get past all of them — either there really was something important inside, or Malfoy was just about the most paranoid person she had ever met.

She breathed a sigh of relief when the lid finally popped open. She had no doubt she could do it, given enough time, but time was something she did not have. She rummaged through the contents of the trunk, looking for anything that looked suspicious. Most of it was the sort of thing one might expect to find inside the trunk of any Hogwarts student: clothes, quills and parchment, a few books that looked neither dangerous nor particularly interesting about the restoration of cabinets. There was a broomstick servicing kit like the one she had given Harry a few years before, as well as several issues of High Fliers, a Quidditch magazine.

A small wooden box caught her eye. She could swear she had seen it move. The moment she opened it, a miniature Norwegian Ridgeback hopped off it and onto her lap. A less adventurous Chinese Fireball peered over the edge, contenting itself with spreading its wings with a yawn. She picked up the Norwegian Ridgeback with a trembling hand, dropping it next to the other dragon and for a moment she was back in her bedroom, scolding Crookshanks for hunting down the dragons.

She had chosen a Norwegian Ridgeback because of Norbert, and a Chinese Fireball because a Liondragon was a fitting gift from a Gryffindor. Those two dragons held good memories, happy memories, memories she could not fully reach, even now. She did not try to follow where they could not lead her. What was gone, was gone, and she had a job to do. Putting away the box, she resumed her search.

There had to be something. No one would go through such trouble to make sure a trunk stayed closed for it to contain nothing more than clothes, books and toys. She was replacing the old tomes in the trunk when a stack of parchment fell off one of them. The moment she looked at the parchment, Hermione knew she had found what she was looking for.

The parchment was covered in diagrams and undecipherable script that she could not make sense of. It was a code of some sort, but while she could not read it, she did not let that discourage her. Codes could be broken, and parchment was easy enough to conceal that she could walk out with it and decipher it at her leisure.

Folding the parchment sheets and hiding them in one of her many pockets, she quickly put back all the contents of the trunk, making little effort to hide the fact it had been searched. She had no time to redo all the wards, he'd know anyway. She was almost done when her gaze fell on a picture that had fallen off one of the books. Even face down, she could tell it was a Polaroid, which was unusual to say the least.

Her eyes filled with tears the moment she turned it over. It had been taken on Christmas morning, and all of them except her grandfather were still wearing pyjamas. Grandpa Wilkins did not believe Christmas morning was an excuse for sloppy dressing. It was a Muggle picture, it did not move, but she could still see Logan's excitement as he opened up his presents, and hear the extremely out-of-tune carolling of her dad and Uncle James.

Draco was laughing at something her mum had said, his left arm thrown casually around Hermione's shoulders. They were all wearing Santa hats, and she remembered having to explain to the wizard who Santa Claus was. Draco had snorted in disbelief at the mere idea of it. Who had ever heard of anything so preposterous as flying reindeer? Muggles would believe anything.

The Hermione in the picture was wearing the necklace Draco had given her, even though it looked ridiculous over her pink pyjamas. Aunt Ada had commented on how lovely it was, prompting a smug reply from the wizard.

And suddenly the fog that had surrounded her mind for the past year lifted and she could see everything clearly again. One moment she couldn't remember and the next she could, and it was like finally coming up for air after a long dive. She could remember the night of the Yule Ball, the night at Hogsmead Station, and all the things in between. With all the pieces in place, everything made sense and she wished it didn't. She had tried to remember for so long, and now she wished she couldn't. Tears ran down her face, but she made no sound. She had no energy left, not for crying, not for anything else.

But the universe seldom made allowances for moments of personal crisis, and approaching footsteps warned her of someone's imminent arrival. She quickly wiped her tears and hid the photograph in her pocket, together with the parchment sheets she had found.

"Pansy was looking for you," Zabini said, dropping his bag on the floor. "I told her I'm not an owl, but I don't think she cares."

"What does she want?" Hermione asked without turning, trying to keep her voice steady.

"What does Pansy ever want? Money, power, and those who will deliver it to her. On this occasion I think she just needs to copy your Transfiguration essay, though, since I wouldn't lend her mine."

"She can write her own." Hermione started packing the rest of the trunk. The faster she was out of there, the better.

"Precisely what I told her." The bed creaked under Zabini's weight. "She seemed to think she'd have better luck with you, which given your mood these days betrays an extraordinary amount of optimism."

"But you know better?" Hermione snorted. Zabini could be even more pompous than Ernie Macmillan.

"I know enough," he said matter-of-factly, before adding, "He's a fool that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a whore's oath—"

"Or a boy's love," Hermione finished softly, more to herself than to Zabini, pushing the closed trunk back under the bed. She realised her mistake almost immediately.

"Protego!" she shouted, spinning around, just in time to block Zabini's stun.

"You're not Draco," he said conversationally, slowly circling the room so he stood between her and the door.

"Very observant." The only window in the room faced the depths of the Black Lake, and Zabini was blocking the door, but it could be worse. At least the walls were thick enough that she doubted any sounds would reach the common room.

"Hardly," Zabini sneered. "It will be a cold day in hell when Draco Malfoy starts quoting Shakespeare." He was about to add something else when his eyes fell on her wand. A look of recognition came over his face. "I don't even want to know," he finally said, rolling his eyes and lowering his wand. "By the way, your eyes have turned brown, Granger. Friendly piece of advice: get out of here before you have a chance to find out how little use claws are in a snake pit."

She did not wait for him to change his mind, but hurried out of the room. Someone — Parkinson maybe — called out to Draco when she crossed the common room, but Hermione did not stop and she did not look back. Suddenly it was hard to breathe and she had to resist the urge to tug at the Slytherin tie that coiled like a snake around her neck.

 _If you're making me forget, then be thorough._ She could still feel the words burning her throat. _I want to forget it all. I want to forget us. I want to forget you. I don't ever want to look at your face again._

Those had been her words and she had meant them. She meant them still. There had been some measure of forgiveness in her before — because people were sometimes faced with impossible choices, and because she understood the importance of family — but all the condescending forgiveness of a Hermione who could not remember enough to feel any differently had turned into a burning rage that threatened to choke her. She allowed the anger to flow through all the broken parts of her, willing it to bury the pain pressing against her chest.

There were no happy endings. She had never expected one. But somewhere along the line she had forgotten what she should have always remembered: that Draco was a Malfoy first and a Slytherin second, and that love — even where it existed — was not enough.

The sleeves of Draco's robes now covered most of her hands, and she was starting to trip on the fabric that dragged slightly on the floor. The transformation back into herself was slower and less dramatic than the change into someone else, but she still feared she would not make it to Myrtle's bathroom in time. The moment she walked through the door and locked eyes with Draco's reflection in the bathroom mirror, she felt the weight of her curls falling over her shoulders.

"What is Merlin's name…" The wizard turned, surprised.

For a moment she froze, unable to move. Of all the places in all the world, this was the last place where she wanted to be, in a room with him. She would have fled but her legs refused to budge, and then suddenly she only wanted to hurt him, physically hurt him, with fists and feet and knees. But even taken by surprise, Draco was taller and bigger than her, and had no trouble pushing her against a wall, using his body to immobilise hers, and seizing her hands with his.

Being unable to move did not stop her trying. There were things she wanted to shout at him. Things like, "I trusted you." Things like, "How could you?" But the only thing that came out, increasingly unintelligible because of her sobs, was "I hate you." Over and over. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so terribly sorry it took so long to post a new chapter, but work and life in general have sort of gotten in the way of (productive) writing. Hopefully I'll be able to keep a steadier schedule from now on, but if not please know I really do feel terrible whenever it takes me longer than usual to get something out. *bows head in shame*
> 
> This chapter ended up twice the size I expected it to be and looks nothing like what I had originally planned for it. The best laid schemes of mice and men, etc...
> 
> Before posting it, I did consider breaking it into two chapters, cause I figured that way I'd already have something to post next week, but I reasoned that after so long without anything new, the least I could do was post a nice big chapter (that, and I have the restraint of a six-year-old; if it's done, I'm posting it...).
> 
> Quick note regarding Zabini: the line he quotes is from King Lear, and he's actually misquoting it (bad Blaise!). The actual line, from Act 3, Scene 6 is: "He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath."
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter :) Thanks for reading! ~Kel


	14. Chapter 14

Draco let her cry, holding the witch tight against him. Some storms hit suddenly and unexpectedly on a summer day, but this one had been brewing for long enough not to come as a surprise. There were no words he could say to make any of it better, nothing he could do that would change what he had done, so he remained silent. He didn't ask for forgiveness. He didn't expect any and he deserved none. He could live for a thousand years and never be able to atone for all the things he had done or for all the things he still must do.

There was a world of anger, sorrow and heartbreak in the sobs that racked Hermione's body, and there was no missing the almost physical effort she made to get her outburst under control. When she firmly pressed her hand against his chest, pushing him away, he let go, watching as she dove into the cubicle on the far end of the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

He closed his fingers around the smooth surface of the wand inside his pocket but did not draw it. Not yet. There were limits to what magic could accomplish, and he was not about to make the same mistake twice. He leaned back against the sinks with a sigh, eyes fixed on the cubicle door.

The silence in the bathroom was broken only by the soft rustling of clothes that indicated the witch was changing, punctuated by occasional sniffling. Even after all the movement had stopped, the Gryffindor remained where she was. For what seemed like an eternity, there was no sound and no movement inside the bathroom. Draco was starting to wonder whether she was waiting for him to leave when the sound of the witch blowing her nose followed by flushing water preceded the opening of the cubicle's door.

When she stepped out, Hermione was once again wearing her own clothes and holding the familiar purple, beaded bag. Though her eyes were red, she was no longer crying. Without so much as a glance his way, the witch dashed for the door, but Draco had been expecting just that and he easily intercepted her, grabbing her arm.

"Not so fast, Hermione. We're not done here."

"Don't touch me!" She glared at him, jerking her arm free.

"Hand over the purse," he demanded, standing between the witch and the door.

Polyjuice potion was used to gather information. It was not the only thing it could be used for — as he knew only too well — but it was its most common use. It allowed people to talk to those who would otherwise not talk to them, or to go places they could otherwise not enter. He wasn't worried about any secrets his friends might have shared — they could not tell what they did not know. But he needed to make sure she hadn't found Borgin's notes about the Vanishing Cabinet.

"Get out of the way, Draco." Her fingers dug into the purple fabric, but his attention had been diverted to the wand on her other hand.

He reached for his own wand, his eyes never leaving Hermione's. "You got your memories back. You remember everything, so you remember how it turned out for you the last time you had to duel me."

"You got lucky," the witch said, her fingers white around the wand.

"It wasn't luck." She took a step back when he took a step forward. "Of the two of us, I was the only one willing to do everything it took. That hasn't changed, Granger." In a softer voice, he added, "Hand it over, Hermione."

The Gryffindor hesitated, her eyes moving to the door behind him, but Draco didn't give her time to consider the merits of trying to fight her way out. He slowly moved towards her, forcing her to move back until she was cornered against the window. Her hands shaking in rage, Hermione threw the purse at him. "Once a bully, always a bully, huh, Malfoy?" she asked with ill-concealed loathing.

Draco ignored the jibe, busy rummaging through the contents of the bag. "I'll spare you the trouble of having to return these," he said, piling the Slytherin robes on top of the sinks.

"How considerate."

Properly searching the enchanted purse took him longer than he would've liked, but he needed to make sure the notes weren't among her things. First, because he needed them, and second because they were a dead giveaway of what he was working on. Everything was written in code, but codes could be broken, and Hermione had never come across a puzzle she did not like. He finally closed the purse, setting it on top of the discarded robes.

"Satisfied?" the witch asked with a smug smile. Too smug.

"Not quite," he replied, moving towards her. Hermione sucked in her breath when he placed his hands on her waist, but she did not move while he searched her. He kept his movements swift and his touch clinical, stopping his hands from lingering in familiar places. Finding nothing, he quickly searched her pockets. These proved empty, except for one. He knew what it was even before turning over the Polaroid. He kept it tucked inside an old Potions book, where he didn't run the risk of accidentally coming across it. It was a painful reminder of happier days, and he could neither stand to look at the picture nor bear the thought of getting rid of it.

Hermione looked away, angrily wiping a tear, and for a few seconds neither spoke or moved.

"Are you sorry at all?" she finally asked.

He was sorry she remembered. He was sorry the spell hadn't been good enough. He was sorry she had been dragged into this whole mess. But whatever regret he felt could not win out against the anger burning hot inside his chest. In a world that kept getting increasingly harder and darker and emptier, he hated her for not letting it go almost as much as he loathed himself for botching the spell.

"You pushed and pushed and pushed, and now you remember," he spat. "Is it everything you were hoping for?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again, unable to say a word. When she finally spoke, her eyes were dry and her tone ice cold. "You father must be very proud, Draco." And with that, she pushed past him, grabbing her purse and heading out the door.

Draco watched her go. When the picture in his hand burst into flames, he let it drop to the floor without so much as a glance in its direction. He wasn't sure whose magic had done it, his or Hermione's, but it didn't matter. Their whole world would burn, and in the end there would be nothing left but dust and ashes. His whole life and everyone in it. Dust and ashes.

 

* * *

 

Hermione ran down the flights of stairs, holding on to her anger like a lifeline. She forced her legs to keep moving, refusing to stop to catch her breath, knowing that if she did she would not be able to start moving again. There would be a time to grieve and fall apart, and to mourn the things she had lost. But not yet. She could not afford to just yet.

When she reached the ground floor, she turned away from the main entrance, which would be locked this late in the evening. Luckily for her and for many other students over the years, there were more ways out of the castle than supervision to keep them closed, and it wasn't long before she was running on the grass outside. Without a cloak, her robes were poor protection against the chill of that February night, but Hermione welcomed the cold. It was something to focus on other than the dull ache pressing against her chest.

The witch came to a sudden halt on the margins of the Black Lake. The mirror-like waters were pitch black, and nothing moved in the forest around it. She breathed out a faint puff of smoke, looking back at the castle behind her. Windows lit up the dark structure like fireflies, but their light did not reach the night outside. Hermione thought back to the Slytherin dungeons, with its enchanted windows facing the greenish waters of the lake. Draco would've had time to return to his dormitory by now. Did he already know the documents were missing?

Hermione had first read _Hogwarts: A History_ at the age of eleven, with the wide-eyed awe of Matilda levitating a glass for the first time. She had read it many times since, and if she no longer retained the child-like sense of wonder the book had first inspired, she made a point of not forgetting the many things it had taught her about the castle that was her home. For instance, because she had read _Hogwarts: A History_ , Hermione knew that the castle's extensive plumbing network drained into the Black Lake.

The witch pointed her wand at the still waters and whispered, "Accio coded documents." Not half a minute had passed before a small splash preceded the arrival of the rolled up parchment, which flew straight to her outstretched hand. A pink hair tie had kept the several sheets in place, while magic had kept them dry. Under different circumstances, Hermione might have taken pleasure in the success of her little ploy, but there was no real joy in the witch's smile, and the victory tasted like ashes in her mouth.

She did not linger on the shore. The night put her too much in mind of another winter evening spent by the lake, and those were not memories she wished to dwell on. Everything was silent when she sneaked back into the castle, and nothing stirred in the shadows while she made her way back to the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione wasn't worried about Filch — it was not so late that a prefect could not justify being out and about - but she wanted to avoid another confrontation with Draco. Relief washed over her when the portrait of the Fat Lady closed behind her.

The common room was almost empty, with only a few older students still up. Ron looked up from the magazine he was reading when she walked by, causing Lavender to glare in her direction, but Hermione ignored them both. She would've ignored Harry as well, but he was less easy to dismiss than Lav-Lav and Won-Won, and intercepted her before she could reach the safety of the girls' dormitories.

"Did you get the time you needed?" he asked. She was not fooled by the innocuousness of the question.

"Yes. Thank you for distracting him." She turned to leave, but Harry grabbed her arm.

"Hermione…" he said, his expression full of unasked questions.

"What I can, when I can, Harry," she said, echoing her previous promise without much conviction. And without giving him time to object, she made her escape.

She could not talk to Harry about it. Not now, maybe not ever. There were things the vow forbade her to say, and there were things she had no words for. Because somehow between leaving the bathroom and arriving at the common room, all the rage that had been squarely aimed at Draco had turned into a thick mantle of self-loathing. He was who he was, and it surprised no one — not even her — that he had ended up with a Dark Mark and a Death Eater mask.

From the time they were eleven, he had always made it abundantly clear what he thought about Muggle-borns. What he thought about her. Where was her self-respect when she forgot all his nasty words — filthy wannabe, Muggle-spawn, Mudblood? Where was her sense of right and wrong when she overlooked the way he treated everyone he deemed inferior to him? The way he treated her friends?

Smartest witch of her age and it had taken nothing but a few choice words and a kiss to make her forget who he was. To make her forget who _she_ was. It was pathetic. And the most pathetic thing was that after everything he had done, she still missed him. She missed him more than she had ever missed anything in her life. There was a hole where he had once been and she was drowning in the emptiness of it.

The pillow made a poor job of muffling the sobs that sounded too loud in the empty room, but she didn't care. Parvati and Lavender were still in the common room down below, and the whole dormitory was empty and still. She could be miserable at her leisure.

"Enough with the pity party, Hermione." The bed creaked under Ginny's weight. Hermione had not heard her come in. "If you fall apart like that over a tosser like Ron, I shudder to think what will happen when you meet someone actually worth all that drama."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, struggling to get her voice under control as she sat up.

"Harry was worried. He asked me to come up and check on you." Ginny ransacked her pockets for a handkerchief. "You look a fright."

"I wasn't exactly counting on having an audience," Hermione said dryly, taking the offered tissue.

But Ginny was no longer looking at her. She picked up the necklace Hermione had been clutching and turned it over with an appraising whistle.

"So much for that theory," she said. "There's no way in hell Ronald could ever afford something like this. Who's he?"

"That's none of your business." Hermione took the necklace back, tucking it under the pillow.

"Rich prats are the worst," the younger Gryffindor said knowingly.

"Please go away," Hermione moaned, leaning her head on her knees.

"I will. But first, I'm going to tell you what you told me. Whoever this person is who is not my brother — because clearly he has both money and flawless taste in jewellery, both attributes Ron sorely lacks—"

"Ginny…" Hermione could not help but smile despite herself.

"Right, I digress. Whoever he is, he's not worth all this moping. Plenty more fish in the sea and whatnot. And if all else fails, you can always hex him. Or her, whichever. There's no better balm for a broken heart than good old-fashioned retribution."

"When did I ever tell you that?" Hermione laughed.

"Well, you might have phrased it somewhat differently." Ginny shrugged with a wicked smile.

"Don't you have a room of your own?" Parvati asked, entering the dormitory followed by Lavender, who eyed Hermione and Ginny suspiciously.

"I'm going." Ginny jumped to her feet. "So, I'll tell Harry I found you making voodoo dolls of meddlesome best friends with boundary issues?"

"Please do," Hermione grinned, her chest lighter than it had been minutes before.

"My very great pleasure."

The younger witch was almost at the door when Hermione called, "Ginny?"

"Mmmm?"

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." And with that the Chaser was off.

Hermione closed the curtains around her bed to avoid the curious glances of her two roommates, but she did not lie back down. Opening her purse, she took out the documents she had stolen from Draco's trunk. Maybe she was bruised, but she was not broken, and she would be damned if she would lose another moment to the pool of self-pity she had been so intent on drowning in before. She was Muggle-born, a witch and a Gryffindor, and she was proud of all three.

Hogwarts was her home, and whatever Draco had been ordered to do by Voldemort — she was not afraid to say his name; she would never be afraid to say his name — she would see to it that it never came to pass. This was her world and she had as much a right to live in it as the Malfoys or the Parkinsons, or any other of the precious Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Hermione wrote the night away, painstakingly copying the documents. There was something comforting in the soft sound of the quill scratching the parchment, something soothing in the familiar motions of her hand as she drew letter after letter.

The sun was not yet up when she finished, but the night sky had given way to the light blue shade of dawn. Reaching for her Ancient Runes textbook, she opened it at random and used her wand to merge the copied parchment with the book. Draco was welcome to try and find it.

Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, Hermione quickly put on her shoes and hurried down the stairs with the original documents, careful not to make any noise. Most of the castle was still asleep that early in the morning, and even the portraits seemed too drowsy to pay her much mind. Hermione did not see a single living soul on her way up to the seventh floor.

She had been in the Room of Requirement too often to have any trouble finding the right spot to summon it. The cluttered room that greeted her on the other side of the door was the perfect place to dispose of the parchment. Draco would never find it there, and she could easily access it again if needed.

The witch picked a path at random, eyeing the piles of dilapidated furniture, discarded books and assorted goods for the right place to hide the documents. She almost tripped on a poorly placed collection of old brooms, which caused her to lean heavily on a less than steady pile of chairs. Trying very hard not to bump, trip or fall over anything else, she made her way through the unsteady maze that had resulted from generations of Hogwarts students trying to get rid of the unnecessary, the embarrassing and the incriminating.

She turned right on the giant troll armour, took a left on the broken Vanishing Cabinet, and stopped by the rattling cage full of copies of The Monster Book of Monsters. The cage was sitting atop an old-fashioned trunk that had once belonged to an H.D.G. Careful not to lose a finger to the ravenous tomes, she transferred the cage to the ground and opened the trunk, which was filled with mouldy books and rolls of parchment. It held an alarming number of love potion recipes and essays on the topic, which probably accounted for the discrete disposal of the whole collection. Hermione hid the coded documents among the other rolls of parchment and closed the trunk, returning the cage full of agitated books to its original perch on top of it.

By the time Hermione made her way down to the Great Hall, the tables were already full of boisterous students busying themselves with breakfast before the start of morning classes. She had no trouble spotting Draco on the Slytherin table. The wizard glared venomously at her as she made her way across the hall, and Hermione rewarded him with the smuggest smile she could summon. Zabini, who was sitting next to Malfoy, chuckled when Hermione winked in their direction, and whatever he said to his companion prompted Draco to reply something that looked remarkably like, "Sod off, Blaise."

"You look very chirpy," Ginny commented when Hermione sat down across from her.

"I had a very restful night," Hermione grinned, surveying the table for something to eat.

"Did you even go to bed?" Ron asked. "You look a mess."

"Sod off, Ron." Hermione bit into an apple, still smiling.

When breakfast was done, the witch broke away form her friends and headed for the main staircase.

Harry called after her. "We'll be late for Charms."

"Go on without me. I left my books in the dormitories."

"Why didn't you bring them down for breakfast? Hermione?"

But she was already out of earshot. Moving staircases meant it took her almost ten minutes to go up to Gryffindor Tower and hurry back down, but she was not terribly worried about the delay. She disliked being late for classes, but Professor Flitwick was one to overlook the occasional tardiness, provided students did their coursework and performed well in class.

She was only two corridors away when someone pushed her unceremoniously into an empty classroom. Hermione dropped her book bag as soon as she was past the threshold and turned on her heels with her wand in hand. Draco banged the door shut before turning to face her, his wand also at the ready.

"Where is it?" he growled, not bothering to keep his voice low.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she said with a smile that clearly showed she knew only too well.

"Damn it, Hermione, this is not a game."

The witch struggled to keep her temper. "Do you think I don't know that?" she spat. "What part of this do you think I take lightly?"

"I can _make_ you tell me."

"Oh, really?" she laughed bitterly, slowly moving between the desks, putting some distance between them. "And which of the Unforgivables do you think would have the desired effect? Not the death curse, naturally. Dead witches tell no tales. What about the Imperius Curse? No? That leaves us with the Cruciatus Curse. I hear 'Crucio the Mudblood' is quite a popular game among Death Eaters."

Draco's smirk looked more like a grimace in his ashen face. "You think I wouldn't do it just because it's you?"

"The question is not whether you would, but whether you can."

He blocked her jinx on instinct, but the force of the spell still knocked him back. Using the momentum, Draco rolled to his feet, shouting a stun that hit nothing but air. And suddenly the whole room was alive with loud noises and flashes of light, an electrical storm of jinxes and hexes that shattered glass and wood, and drowned the voices of the witch and wizard at its centre.

It was hard to move in such close quarters and it wasn't long before they were both covered in cuts and bruises from flying wood and shards of glass, but Hermione did not care. There was not enough space inside of her for all the rage she felt.

All the pain and anger burning inside her chest were given shape by the violent chaos of her magic. Draco's spells were tame by comparison — controlled stuns and shields that mounted an effective defence without being much of an attack.

The witch had just dodged a Freezing Spell when an unexpected hex hurled her back against the far wall. The impact drove all the air from her lungs and it took a moment for her to realise she was stuck in place, unable to move or speak.

"Too slow, Granger," Draco teased with a smug grin, breathing heavily.

But he did not have long to gloat before being thrown back in turn across the room. Freed from his spell, Hermione managed to land on her feet.

"You should work on your non-verbal spells, Malfoy," she scoffed before being forced to scramble out of the way of an incoming table. Just as the desk shattered against the wall, the door was thrown open by a livid Professor McGonagall.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her lips a thin line. "What in Merlin's name do you think you are doing?"

 

* * *

 

The portraits on the wall watched with interest the scene unfolding on the floor below. McGonagall's incensed words bounced off the stone walls of her office as she berated the two students for their utter contempt for school rules, complete disregard for school property, and reckless use of magic in ways that could have resulted in permanent damage or death. What were they thinking? Sixth year students and prefects at that. It was an outrage. It was a disgrace. She ought to contact their parents. She ought to expel them on the spot.

Hermione could only stare horrified at her Head of House, but Draco refused to be intimidated by the old witch. He Who Must Not Be Named scared him. That vile snake of his scared him. His aunt Bellatrix — sadistic to the point of crazy — scared him. Old McGonagall did not, however stern her tone or harsh her words. There were too many fairy-tale monsters living in his house for a lecture to worry him overmuch.

He wasn't even worried about being expelled, though Hermione was clearly already packing inside her head. But if blowing up a classroom were grounds for expulsion, Gryffindor House would be half empty at any given point in time. And even if McGonagall were ever tempted to expel one of her precious Gryffindors, she would not start with the likes of Hermione.

No. Expulsion did not worry him, and he was certain Snape would deal with his punishment so that it didn't interfere with his mission. The Potions Master had so far remained silent — a dark, brooding figure standing behind McGonagall's chair — but he finally decided to join the fray during a lull in the old witch's tireless tirade.

"Who started it?" he asked only, his voice controlled and grave. It was a familiar move, but this time Draco wasn't playing and did not reply.

"I did," Hermione said in a clear voice, chin up and shoulders back. Draco rolled his eyes and spoke up before he could stop himself.

"Yeah, that's likely," he scoffed. "Teacher's pet starting fights in empty classrooms. You're not that interesting, Granger." He stared straight into Snape's eyes as he added, "I started it."

But Hermione was having none of it. "Liar, you did not. I started it, you despicable—"

"Oh shut it, Granger. As if you—"

"Quiet!" McGonagall's tone was all it took to silence them both. "That's enough from either one of you. I'm not interested in who started it. You're both getting detention. You can start by handing over your wands."

Hermione gasped and it was Draco's turn to stare horrified at the Transfiguration teacher.

"Professor, you can't," Hermione protested, clutching her wand. "We have classes and—"

"As a matter of fact you do not, Miss Granger. You and Mr Malfoy will spend the next few days in Mr Filch's company, cleaning up the classroom you saw fit to practically demolish. When you're done, you will perform whatever other chores Mr Filch decides to give you. When I feel you have learnt something about the consequences of the irresponsible use of magic, you can have your wands back."

Draco looked from McGonagall to Snape, all his pride replaced by a growing sense of panic. He needed his wand. He couldn't be without his wand.

Snape ignored his mute pleas, remaining silent as the Head of Gryffindor House elaborated on the details of their punishment, which would include a variant of the Trace so that they couldn't use someone else's wand either. At long last, however, even Snape decided enough was enough.

"Minerva," he interrupted, "Mr Malfoy is a member of my House. I will be the one to decide his punishment."

"If you think I am being too lenient, Severus," the witch said, looking over her glasses at the Potions Master, "do feel free to add whatever other forms of detention you believe Mr Malfoy might benefit from. However, given the severity of the situation, I am using my authority as Deputy Headmistress to enforce this particular punishment. You may discuss the issue with Dumbledore if you like." She paused before adding, "When he's back."

Never one to fight a losing battle, Snape backed down with a brief nod. Standing behind McGonagall, the wizard shrugged almost imperceptibly, as if to convey that since Draco had seen fit to display the short temper and lack of judgement of a Gryffindor, maybe it was suitable that he were punished like one.

Draco glowered at both teachers while a despondent Hermione placed her wand on the desk. He clutched his own, defiance building up in his chest. Snape shot him a warning look that would've gone unheeded if it weren't for the memory of his father's words. _Be smart, Draco_. And despite recent evidence to the contrary, Draco knew when to cut his losses. Ignoring the instinctive urge to blow his way out of the room, he placed his wand next to Hermione's on the desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. There's a special circle of hell for writers who slack on their updates, and I am sure I am headed straight in its direction. At a certain point while writing chapter 14, I was sitting at roughly 8,000 words and not done yet. This caused a small nervous breakdown followed by an epiphany. There's no conceivable reason why a chapter of anything should be over 8,000 words. So for the sake of my sanity, I decided to divide it in two chapters. Hope you enjoyed the first half. Thank you for reading, thank you for reviewing, and thank you for your patience in waiting for this much delayed instalment! ~ Kel


	15. Chapter 15

The story of the the confrontation between Draco and Hermione spread like Fiendfyre throughout the school. No details were known, but as is often the case, no details were needed. Before the end of the day, it had become a heroic tale of Muggle-born perseverance vs. pure-blood arrogance, Gryffindor bravery vs. Slytherin corruption, the powers of good vs. the forces of evil. To hear Gryffindors tell it, at any rate.

Hermione had little time to enjoy her newfound prominence, however. Filch — who was still mourning the loss of the good ol' days when he could hang students from the ceiling for infractions like breathing too loudly — was more than happy to dull some of the pain by bossing Hermione and Draco around like a pair of glorified house-elves.

With a glee that would've seemed undignified in someone less covered in grime, he spent the day spouting insults, shouting orders, and quietly creeping in corners in the interim, overseeing their work with the eagerness of a vulture over a killing field.

Hermione tied her hair back in a braid and set to work, trying to ignore the stinging from the cuts on her hands and face. She could live for a thousand years and never be able to get over the mortification she had felt during McGonagall's lecture. A few days in Filch's company were a small punishment by comparison.

Draco, however, was not used to being ordered around by the likes of Argus Filch, and it wasn't long before the black cloud following him around turned into a full-blown storm.

"Listen here, you good for nothing Squib," he growled, tossing his broom to the ground. "You want to back off right now, or Merlin help me, when I'm done with you they won't even be able to identify your body."

But Filch hadn't spent years dealing with Peeves and cleaning up after basilisks and trolls to be intimidated by a teenager. "Uppity little boy who can't even do magic," he scoffed. "I'm shaking in my boots. Boy, I know every inch of this castle, in and out. They won't be able to identify my body? Rubbish. They won't be able to find yours. Now back to work before I report you to Professor McGonagall."

"Draco, come on," Hermione pleaded, pulling him by the sleeve. They were in enough trouble already without him picking more fights.

"Leave me alone," he spat, jerking his arm away before storming off to the other side of the room.

There were no more fits of temper after that, but there was no dissipating the tension in the room. By the time Filch finally released them, Hermione was both exhausted and emotionally drained. It was dark already and they had missed dinner, but the witch didn't care. All she wanted was to get into bed and sleep.

Alas, as soon as she walked past the portrait of the Fat Lady, the entire Gryffindor common room erupted in cheers and applause. Hermione blushed and smiled awkwardly, trying to plot her escape while dodging her friends' questions.

"I don't know whether I should be worried or impressed," Harry said, pulling her away from the general commotion to a seat by the window.

"You don't need to be either," she said, flinching when he touched a bruise on her cheek. "It was foolish and rash, and I don't know what I was thinking. Oh God, you should've seen the look on McGonagall's face." Hermione groaned, hiding her face in her hands and trying to erase the memory from her mind.

Harry chuckled, patting her in the head. "There, there," he said. "It could've been worse. At least she didn't expel you."

The following days were no great improvement on that first one under Filch's supervision. The caretaker was thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to lord over a couple of snotty students, and kept coming up with exciting new ways to make them miserable.

From dawn till dusk, Draco and Hermione swept, scrubbed, dusted and polished their way across the castle, until even Hermione was ready to scream at the old man. Filch's tyranny was made worse by the pointlessness of their task. Most of the places Filch forced them to clean were out-of-the-way rooms — rooms where people seldom went, and that no one particularly cared to see properly swept, scrubbed, dusted or polished.

Between Filch's demands and the school work that kept piling up, almost a week went by without Hermione managing to find the time to devote to the coded documents she had found among Draco's things. The witch used what little time she had during the day to hound both teachers and students for notes of what she had missed in class, and she spent the evenings labouring over textbooks.

She had been top of her class from the time she was eleven — something she prided herself on not the least because it annoyed all the pure-blood prats in the school — and she was not about to let a flare of temper change that. So she took the time to painstakingly go over all the notes, read the relevant chapters, write the necessary papers. Even when her entire body ached from days slaving away under Filch's dictatorial rule. Even when she was tired enough to sleep until the end of the school year.

Most nights she stayed up well past everyone else, often being the last one in the common room, but there were nights when sleep won over stubbornness and she could be found softly snoring on top of a pile of books. On one such a night, she woke up when Ginny set a package next to her head.

"From Fred and George," Ginny explained, sitting down across from Hermione.

Hermione picked up the envelope on top of the package and opened it with clumsy fingers. She had just broken the seal when the letter flew out of her hands and stood hovering in front of her face.

"We're so proud, Hermione," George's voice said in a melodramatic tone.

"So, so proud," Fred agreed before blowing his nose.

"You're like the little sister we never had," George said.

"The other little sister we never had," Fred corrected. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"We don't know where we failed the others."

"They never so much as blew up a broom cupboard."

"Let alone a classroom."

"Charlie set my broom on fire once."

"But it's just not the same."

"So we're proud!"

"Proud, proud, proud. So proud."

"We didn't know we had had such an influence on you."

"We're writing Ginny and Ron off our will right now."

"Only you are worthy of inhering our empire."

"Okay, we're not really writing them off."

"Mum would kills us."

"Ironically kicking off the terms of the will."

"But we're sending you candy."

"Harmless candy, we promise."

"Mostly harmless candy."

"And some fireworks. Just in case you feel like having an encore."

"We're oh so proud!" they both chanted before the letter glided peacefully to the table.

Hermione and Ginny looked at each other and burst out laughing. "My brothers, ladies and gentlemen," Ginny said in tears.

"Oh God, I miss them," Hermione said, trying to stop laughing.

"You wouldn't miss them if you had ever had to share a bathroom with them, I promise you."

They continued to giggle while Hermione struggled to untangle the magic string holding the package together. She looked up when Ginny spoke again.

"I don't commend you taste in guys, but I can't fault your way of getting even," she grinned.

Hermione forced a smile and was about to reply when a shadow fell on them.

"Risky move, Ronald," Ginny said to her brother, who was standing awkwardly next to their table. "Lavender is glaring."

But Ron ignored his sister, turning to Hermione instead. "Look," he said, "I know you and I haven't really… What I'm trying to say is, if that git had hurt you — really hurt you — I'd have put his head on a pike. I still have half a mind to—" But he never got to finish. Hermione jumped to her feet and threw her arms around his neck, trying very hard not to cry. They had been fighting for so long that she couldn't even remember why, and she really missed her friend.

He patted her uncertainly on the back. "Well, don't make a fuss now… And really," he added, "I'm really impressed with the number you did on that classroom."

The next day, Filch led Draco and Hermione to the Trophy Room on the third floor and handed them a bucket full of rags, brushes and cleaning products. "Don't even think about leaving here until all the awards in this room are spotless."

"There have to be over a thousand trophies in this place," Draco complained with a frown. "We'll never get done."

"Well, then I suggest your majesties get started." And leaving Mrs Norris to watch over them, the caretaker walked out.

With a resentful look at the cat, Draco picked up a rag and a bottle of Madame Glossy's Silver Polish, and walked off to the far end of the room without another word. Hermione watched him go before picking up some supplies herself. All things considered, it was not the worst assignment Filch had given them. And it seemed that at least today they were rid of the old man's company.

She started working on a glass case with Quidditch trophies. Some of them went as far back as the 1600s, and she wondered whether somewhere in the room she might find some even older. There were trophies from familiar witches and wizards, like Richard Carter and James Potter, but Hermione did not recognise most of the names on the awards. She had just picked up a trophy belonging to an Ashley Sanders when something rattled the trophies still on the shelves. And suddenly, in a puff of smoke, Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were standing before her.

"Miss Granger, why are you still here?" Professor Dumbledore asked with a disapproving frown.

"Professor?" Hermione asked, confused.

"Heavens, girl." Professor McGonagall pushed her glasses higher on her nose. "Why haven't you packed yet?"

"I don't—"

"Muggle-borns aren't very smart, are they?" Dumbledore asked the older witch.

"They're always a bit of a hit and miss." McGonagall shrugged. "A pity. She showed such promise as a young girl."

Hermione took a deep breath, her hand instinctively flying to the pocket where she usually kept her wand. But there was nothing there. She took a step back, struggling to remain focused.

"You're not real," she said, needing to hear the words aloud. "This isn't real."

"Don't talk nonsense, girl," McGonagall said. "You'll only make things worse for yourself. Now hurry up; you're taking the train back to London tonight. Muggles don't belong at Hogwarts."

"I'm not a Muggle," Hermione protested, her heart drumming in her ears.

"Muggle, Muggle-born, it's all the same." Dumbledore searched his pockets until he found what he was looking for. "Cough drop, Minerva?"

"No, thank you, Albus. Now, enough tarrying. Come with us, girl."

"Stay away from me," Hermione said, a touch of hysteria in her voice. She moved back as the pair advanced towards her. Just then, the clanging sound of metal against the stone floor drew their attention.

"Get away from her, you stupid boggart." Draco ran across the room, another trophy in hand. But as soon as he got close enough to the boggart, the creature morphed and shifted, and suddenly they were looking at the broken bodies of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Lucius was sprawled on the floor, one of his legs at an unnatural angle, and a mess of golden hair covering his face. He wasn't moving.

His wife was a few feet away. Her chest was still slowly moving up and down, but she made a whizzing sound whenever she drew a breath. There was blood running down the side of her mouth, and her eyes were wide open as she tried fruitlessly to turn her head in her husband's direction.

Draco had stopped moving, all colour drained from his face. Hermione called to him, but he didn't seem to hear her. He could not tear his eyes away from the scene in front of him. Hermione looked around, desperately trying to find something — anything — that could help.

It was then that hurried steps announced the arrival of Argus Filch. Without pausing, the caretaker picked up a candle and a spray can of Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. He marched up to the Malfoys and, holding the candle in front of the spray can, set the boggart on fire. The creature hissed and flailed, its form changing and morphing until there was nothing left but a still shapeless mass, burned to a crisp.

"Bright young minds who can't even get rid of a boggart with no magic," Filch scoffed. "Merlin save us all. Back to work, you two."

They spent the remainder of the day in silence. Hermione pretended not to see the way Draco's hands were still shaking, even hours after it had happened. Draco pretended not to see how she flinched every time there was a loud noise. Filch pretended the good ol' days were back and that soon he'd be able to put his chains to use once again.

The sun had already set by the time they were done cleaning, and enchanted candles cast wavering shadows on the walls and floor. Filch sent them off with a half-shouted reminder to be on time the following day or even the Minister of Magic himself wouldn't be able to help them.

Draco was the first one out the door, and Hermione quickly lost sight of him in the darkened corridors. She made no great effort to keep up. Her boggart had shaken her, but so had his. And she didn't want to feel sorry for him. She didn't want to feel sympathy. She was too tired for a complicated world of conflicting loyalties and difficult choices. All she wanted was a simple world of heroes and villains, and the choices that defined them.

By the time she took a shower and made her way down to the Gryffindor common room, everyone had already headed to the Great Hall for dinner. Hermione wasn't hungry. She was too exhausted to feel hungry. Too tense. Too unsettled.

She reached for her Charms book and started reading the chapter Flitwick would've covered in class that day. After reading the same sentence ten times, she set the book down with an exasperated sigh. Maybe she should get something to eat after all. They had skipped lunch, and breakfast seemed like half a lifetime away. Having dinner was simply common sense. It had nothing to do with checking up on Draco. It was just the reasonable thing to do.

Knowing she would get nothing done otherwise, Hermione got to her feet and made her way to the Great Hall. With most people at dinner, the corridors of the castle were deserted, and she saw no one as she made her way to the ground floor. The low rumble of muffled voices and the cluttering of silverware grew in a crescendo until she walked into the Great Hall.

She glanced at the Slytherin table, but there was no sign of Draco. Hermione raised an inquisitive eyebrow in Zabini's direction, but the wizard merely shrugged, looking away.

Finding a seat next to Harry, Hermione stared at the empty plate in front of her but did not reach for any of the food. Stealing another glance at the Slytherin table, she tried to remember all the reasons why she shouldn't care whether or not Draco was still shaken by what had happened earlier.

She tried to summon the anger she knew was justified. Anger over Katie. Anger over herself. Because whatever his reasons, they did not absolve him of the consequences of his actions. She knew this and she did not forget. But neither could she forget his horrified expression as he stared at the scene conjured by the boggart.

Unable to sit still any longer, she got up and walked out, ignoring Harry's questions and Ginny's curious looks. It was a big castle and he could be anywhere, but she had a good notion of where to start looking.

* * *

He did not turn at the sound of the door opening. The wards were still holding and there was only another person besides himself who could open it.

"You shouldn't be here, Granger," he said before raising the flask to his lips.

"I know," she said, coming to stand next to him by the open window. Without asking, she grabbed the flask from him and took a sip.

"Firewhisky," she sneered. "Some prefect you are, Malfoy."

"This from the woman who blew up half a classroom." He stole the flask back.

"I didn't blow it up alone," she said with a small smile.

"You pretty much did." He took another gulp of firewhisky, before adding, "I was holding back."

"Liar." She took back the flask. They drank in silence, passing it back and forth, watching the stillness of the night outside. The moon reflected on the lake cast its glow on the landscape, but everything inside the room was immersed in shadows.

"Why are you here, Hermione?" he finally asked without looking at the witch.

She shrugged, shivering despite the alcohol. "I thought the room would be empty."

"Liar."

She did not reply and he dropped the subject. Part of him — the sober, sensible part of him — knew that he should leave. He shouldn't have been up there to begin with. But he was tired of denying himself the things he wanted, and just then he desperately wanted to be up there, drinking himself into a stupor. She was welcome to stay and watch.

"It was just a boggart," Hermione said, turning her back to the window.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said. His ghosts were his own, and he did not need her sympathy.

"Suit yourself." Grabbing the flask, Hermione disappeared into the shadows of the room.

"Close the window," she asked. "It's freezing."

"It's dark inside," he complained, torn between the wish to follow and the instinct to be difficult.

"There are candles and matches in here somewhere."

Draco snorted at the indignity of having to resort to matches. No Malfoy had any use for matches. No self-respecting witch or wizard did. But remembering she was holding the firewhisky hostage, he bit back a snide remark about Muggle tricks and closed the window before moving to the sofa in the almost complete darkness.

The sound of opening cabinet doors and drawers gave away Hermione's position nearby. A small flash of light lit her face momentarily, but the match died out before she could bring it close to the wick. She stroke another match with deft movements, this time succeeding in lighting the candle set on top of the desk. Grabbing a few more candles from a cardboard box, she lit them on the first candle and spread them around the room.

"A beautiful fire hazard," he joked, rescuing the flask she had left on the desk. "McGonagall is going to have our hides if we destroy another room."

"You can always blame it on my unfortunate Muggle upbringing," she said dryly, letting a few drops of wax drip on the dark top of a dresser before using it as a base to keep the last candle upright.

Draco stopped the ascending movement of his arm before the flask reached his lips. He wasn't the only one plagued by ghosts. "It was just a boggart, Granger. You said so yourself."

"I know." She crossed the room back to where he was standing and put away the rest of the candles without meeting his eyes.

"Hermione—"

"I don't want to talk about it either, _Malfoy_ ," she snapped. "Certainly not with the likes of you."

The words stung, but not half as much as the pointed look she gave his left arm. Before the witch could move away, Draco turned to face her, pinning her against the desk. "Well, if we're not going to talk," he said suggestively, his face only a few inches from hers, "I can think of at least one good use the likes of me have for the likes of you."

The sound of the slap filled the room around them. Neither moved in the few seconds it took for the sharp pain on the side of his face to turn into a dull ache. He relished the feeling. There was relief to be found in a pain that was physical and tangible and real. Hermione glowered at him.

"You're disgusting," she said in an unsteady voice.

"I'll take that as a no, then," he smirked, letting go of the desk. He started to move away, only then noticing her left hand clinging to the edge of his robes. Suddenly realising it herself, Hermione hastily let go before looking away, trying and failing to conceal the hurt that was only too clear in her expression.

Sometimes he wondered whether he was an ass out of habit or just an ass.

"I'm sorry," he said, pulling her to him. "I'm so sorry." He had to stop trying so hard to shatter everything within reach. It was the impulse of a child throwing a tantrum, and he was not a child — when he went for blood, he seldom missed his mark. "I did not mean that," he said, wrapping his arms tight around her.

He searched for the right things to say, only to realise what he should've known already — that words do more damage than they can fix. He leaned his forehead against hers, his fingers buried in her hair. When he kissed her, there was no ulterior motive in the gesture, no hidden agenda. He just wanted to make her feel better and was at a loss as to how. It started out soft and tender and sweet, and it should've gone no further.

* * *

She kissed him back, hesitantly at first, and then with an intensity that scared her. There were so many things that should've made her stop. Hurt pride, self-respect, common sense. There was a world of things between them that did not disappear just because she wished them gone. But she needed a break. She needed a truce. She needed them to stop trying so hard to tear each other apart. Just for a little while.

She fumbled blindly with his robes, trying to remove everything that stood between them.

"The true tragedy of the Muggle-born," Draco said huskily, pulling his robes over his head, "Defeated by a set of robes."

"Shut up," she laughed, blushing slightly at the sight of his naked torso.

"Make me," he dared, leaning down to kiss her.

She gasped when he slid his cold fingers under her shirt, sending shivers down her spine. Misinterpreting her reaction, Draco stopped kissing her and gave her a searching look before asking, "Do you want to stop?"

By way of reply, Hermione took off her top, letting it drop to her side. Draco stared down at her with a hungry look, but did not move until she wrapped her arms around his neck, her warm body pressed against his. When he kissed her again, his mouth was harder and more demanding than before, with an urgency that took her breath away.

It was a bad idea. She knew it and he knew it, but it was a knowledge that stopped neither of them. Because the world might be going to hell, and them with it, but not yet. Not just yet. They could hold on a little while longer — just a little while longer — if only they tried.

Draco steered them both in the direction of the nearby sofa, quickly unbuttoning her jeans with practised movements. They hadn't gone very far, however, when he stepped on the hem, tripping her and almost sending both of them flying to the floor. He caught her in time and they both burst out laughing.

"Big bad pure-blood," she teased, "defeated by a pair of jeans."

"Shut it, you," he said, still laughing.

With a wicked smile, Hermione stepped out of the hazardous trousers and walked over to the sofa. "Make me," she said.

* * *

There was a small pool of wax at the base of the candles spread around the room, and only two of them were still burning. Draco brushed a strand of hair away from Hermione's face, kissing her nose. "We should get dressed," he said drowsily.

"Five more minutes," she said, her lips brushing softly against his. Draco did not argue. It was a stolen moment and he did not wish it to be over any more than she did. "What happened here?" she asked, her fingers tracing a large bruise on the side of his neck.

" _Someone_ ," he grinned, "tried to kill me with a desk."

"Oh. This must've been a person uncommonly powerful and talented."

"Uncommonly bloodthirsty, more like it." He groaned when she pinched his chest. "All right, all right. Uncommonly powerful and talented."

"That a boy."

Her smile fell when she looked down at his left arm, which was thrown casually around her waist. She reached for it, and Draco turned it so she could properly see the black tattoo that took up most of his lower arm.

"Hideous thing, isn't it?" he said, trying to make light of it. Hermione did not reply, her fingers running along the sides of the mark without ever actually touching it. Draco kept silent. He had no excuses to make, no explanations to offer. The mark on his arm was no accident. He was not some innocent bystander caught in the middle of something too big to handle. His choices had been his to make, and they'd be his to live with.

"What does he want you to do, Draco?" she asked, breaking the silence.

He smiled ruefully, kissing her forehead. "Ask me no questions and I will tell you no lies."

"I won't let it happen."

"I won't let you stop me."

There was no animosity in the look they shared, only sadness and regret, and something Draco could not identify.

When they finally got up, they took their time getting dressed. They did it in silence, avoiding looking at each other. By then, they were down to their last candle, and most of the room was immersed in shadows.

"You should go first," Draco said. "Don't get caught or we'll be in seventh year and still in detention."

It was a poor joke but she smiled anyway, leaning against him as she kissed him. "Goodbye, Malfoy," she said softly.

"Goodbye, Granger," he replied, tucking a rebellious curl behind her ear.

* * *

It being Saturday did not deter Filch from dragging them to a fresh hell of dust and cobwebs. Unmoved by their sleepy faces and sluggish demeanour, the caretaker barked orders while sipping coffee from a mug that had not seen any soap since the time of the Founders. He had been in such a hurry to set them to work, that he had not even allowed them time for breakfast, though that hadn't stopped him from packing a few scones for himself and some milk for that vile cat of his.

But even Filch's petty attempts at tyranny could not dampen Draco's good mood. So maybe his plan wasn't going quite as planned, and he was now behind on all his classes on top of everything else. But for the first time in a long time, he could breathe again. His eyes met Hermione's across the room and the witch smiled at him before rolling her eyes in Filch's direction.

Draco picked up another rag from the pile set for their use, and was about to begin polishing an overly-elaborate cupboard when the sound of hooves made them all turn towards the door. Hermione went white at the sight of the large Patronus. The stag stopped a few feet away from the witch, and Potter's voice filled the room.

"Ron has been poisoned. Hospital Wing. Come quick."

And just like that, the Patronus disappeared. Hermione did not move for a few seconds, frozen in place.

Draco tried to control the nausea building in his stomach. "Hermione…"

The witch cast him a horrified look before hurrying out of the room.


	16. Chapter 16

Draco slumped down on the armchair in the corner of the almost-empty Slytherin common room, eyes shut close in frustration as he contemplated the chain of unlikely events that could have led Ronald Weasley to manage the extraordinary feat of poisoning himself with the mead intended for Dumbledore. The poison had always been a long shot — half-baked, half-arsed and slightly desperate — and the likelihood of it missing its target and harming someone else had always been high, but it took a special kind of bad luck to score a Weasley — and that one in particular.

Even if Hermione had no way of knowing Draco was behind it, she knew enough to at least suspect it, and pinning the blame on Malfoy had long been Potter's favourite hobby. He could manage Potter — he'd been doing it for six years - but Hermione complicated things. For many different reasons, she complicated things.

He didn't realise someone had taken the armchair next to his until Blaise spoke up.

"Don't break my toys, Draco," he said without looking up from his book. "Or I'll start being far less careful with yours."

Maybe his problem was that his secret plans were far less secret than was desirable.

"I don't respond well to threats, Blaise."

"Surprising, considering how much practice you have with them."

His hand tightened around his wand, but before he could do something monumentally stupid, Pansy strode across the room to where they were.

"Both of you seriously need to start making better life choices," she said. "Draco, we're going for a walk."

"Are we indeed?" he asked unimpressed.

"Right now."

He had been on the receiving end of that specific glare often enough to know to get up and follow her out of the Slytherin common room.

They walked in silence. The heavy rain had driven all of the students indoors, making it impossible to walk two steps without tripping over one student or another. They had just turned a corner when two first-years ran out of a room and straight into Draco, almost knocking him down.

That was all the motivation Draco needed to lash out at the alarmed duo — a Hufflepuff boy and a Slytherin girl — with threats specific enough to be chilling and vague enough to be ominous. Maybe human beings shouldn't be used as stress balls, but Draco took what he could get. He was aggravated enough that he finished his tirade by docking twenty points from both houses, which earned him a less than impressed looked from Pansy.

"Feeling better?" she asked after the terrified kids had ran off.

Without replying, Draco made for the stairs, trying to get away. He didn't even know what he was trying to get away from — Pansy and the questions he knew were coming; Hermione and Weasley, and the stupid idea to give Slughorn the poisoned mead and hope for the best; the eleven-year-olds that every year seemed to get younger and smaller and more breakable.

There was no escaping any of it, however, and when he made it to the south gallery on the fifth floor, Pansy was close behind him. The place was empty, as he had hoped it would be. Ignoring the rain coming in through the open end of the gallery, he leaned against a pillar.

"Was it you?" Pansy asked conversationally, stopping near the opposite wall, where it was dry. "Weasley," she added. "Was it you?"

Draco didn't reply straight away. He would have, a year ago. Back then he had been stupid enough to brag about things best kept quiet, and cocky enough to think that he was too smart ever to come up with something so half-arsed as a poisoned drink, set adrift like a message in a bottle and just as likely to reach its intended recipient. But it had been a long year and he knew better. He had precious few things left to brag about, and he wasn't even sure that was really Pansy.

"Who's Algernon Worthing?" he asked, turning to face her.

The witched quirked an eyebrow. "Paranoid much?"

Maybe he was, but there were too many people running around with Polyjuice Potion for comfort.

"Answer the question, Parkinson."

Pansy sighed, crossing her arms. "Algernon Worthing was a powerful pure-blood wizard. He could fly without a broom and make magic without a wand, and everyone worshipped him like a king. He didn't have a curfew, ate nothing but sweets, and you killed him off in a fit of pique when I decided he was much cooler than you. We made him up when we were seven. Happy?"

"Yeah, it was me." He turned away, staring out at the rain-soaked landscape.

After a few moments of silence, Pansy came to stand by his side.

"Honestly, poison?" There was no mistaking the disapproval in her voice.

"Too underhanded for your taste?"

"Too daft for my taste." She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "And it reeks of desperation."

"If that's you trying to cheer me up, you're extraordinarily bad at it."

Pansy shrugged, linking her arm with his. "It was a piss-poor plan, and you should feel bad about it."

Draco couldn't help but smile, a brief, blink-and-you-missed-it smile. Pansy telling him off for being an idiot shouldn't make him feel better, but it did — however slightly, however briefly. The normality of it was reassuring.

Despite everything that had happened during the past year, despite the Dark Mark carved into his arm, Pansy was who she had always been — the same blunt, fierce, opinionated girl who had refused to apologise for breaking his broom when they were five, because it was really his fault for having such a flimsy, breakable thing anyway.

From the time they had learnt to walk, she had refused to be impressed by his big house, old money and famous last name, because her house was just as big, her family just as old, and her name just as distinguished. She wore it like an armour, like he had once worn his, and he missed that. He missed being that sure nothing could ever touch him.

"Hermione will never forgive me for it," he said.

"Probably not," Pansy replied dismissively. "But I dare say you have more pressing concerns than Granger's good opinion."

He did. And in a perfect world, he'd only have to deal with one problem at a time. It wasn't a perfect world, however, and it never rained but it poured.

"I'm running out of time," he said, feeling all the worse for having said it. "And I'm running out of options."

Pansy was quiet for a few moments. When she spoke, her tone was measured.

"Maybe it's time you cut your losses."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning a live traitor is better than a dead lackey."

Those were dangerous words, but not surprising ones. Pansy's idea of loyalty was part ambition and part self-interest, and all self-preservation. She would have sided with Muggle-borns and blood traitors well before ending up so cornered, principles be damned.

"It's not that simple, Panse."

"It really is, Draco."

But it wasn't, however much he wished it were. Draco did not forget that his mother was still at Malfoy Manor, playing hostess to monsters and murderers, and that being in Azkaban did not ensure his father's safety either, for the loyalty of Dementors was sure to prove even more fickle than Pansy's.

No. A live traitor might be better than a dead lackey, but he was in no position to find out.

* * *

Everything was quiet in the hospital wing, and even the twins looked unusually subdued as they listened to Harry's account of what had happened in Slughorn's office. Hermione, who had heard the story before, was only half listening. Her gaze followed the steady rise and fall of Ron's chest, needing the constant reassurance that he was still breathing.

She tried to silence the unending string of 'what ifs' running through her head. What if Harry had not thought about the bezoar? What if there hadn't been one in the room? What if it had been too late? It was a pointless line of thought. Harry had thought about it, there had been a bezoar in the room, and Ron had taken it on time. But she kept turning cold at the thought of what might have happened if things had played out differently.

The arrival of Mr and Mrs Weasley, who had been talking to the Headmaster, caused Madam Pomfrey to usher Harry, Hermione and Hagrid out of the room, limiting the visitors to family alone.

Despite it being the middle of the day, the corridors were mostly deserted. The witch was paying little attention to the conversation between Harry and Hagrid, but she couldn't help but snort when the gamekeeper proclaimed his conviction that Dumbledore — Headmaster of Hogwarts, knower of secrets and master puppeteer extraordinaire — did not know who was behind the cursed necklace and the poisoned mead. She would as soon believe the Headmaster didn't know the Black Lake was wet.

Harry's well-placed paranoia had had him pointing fingers in Draco's direction since the beginning of the year, and Hermione was not so much a fool that she was in any doubt as to who was to blame for what had just happened. How much more did Dumbledore know, who always knew so much?

Hagrid left them at the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, and Hermione was about to step into the open entrance when Harry grabbed her arm. They watched in silence as the gamekeeper disappeared around the corner, and then Hermione followed Harry in the opposite direction and into an empty room.

"Was it him?" Harry asked before the door was even closed behind them.

Hermione did not have to ask who 'him' was.

"Most likely."

"We have to tell Dumbledore."

"Tell him what, Harry?" she almost screamed, exasperated. "We have nothing but conjectures."

"I have nothing but conjectures," he said pointedly. "You know things. And it's no use saying you don't, because I know you do. Merlin, Hermione, stop protecting him already."

"I'm not protecting him." Not really. Not entirely.

"You bloody well are." Harry ran a nervous hand through his hair. "You want to defend your boyfriend even after everything he did to you? Go right ahead. But I care that he almost killed Ron."

"And you think I don't?" Her voice was shaking with rage. "How dare you? You have no—"

"Oh spare me the indignation," he cut in. "If you cared you would tell me what you know and help me put a stop to it."

"It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is. It's perfectly simple. You choose us or you choose him. You choose your friends or you choose the git who's been trying his very best to make our lives hell for the better part of six years."

"You don't get to give me ultimatums, Harry."

"The hell I don't. I kept quiet when you chose to fool around with a guy who always treated you like dirt because that's your business." Hermione scoffed, but Harry kept going. "I stayed out of it when he hurt you because you asked me to. But that's over. He's dangerous, he's working for Voldemort, and you still won't give him up. Where's your bloody loyalty? He can't be that good a lay."

"Where's my loyalty?" she repeated, too aggravated to keep her voice down. "Where's your fucking common sense? You think your precious Dumbledore knows less than you do? Less than I do? Grow up, Harry. There's nothing that goes on in this place he doesn't know about. You think I'm keeping secrets? Ask him about his."

* * *

Professor Flitwick droned on about Summoning charms, but Hermione wasn't paying attention. Her mind kept going over the angry words she and Harry had thrown at one another. Their argument had only grown louder and uglier, until they could barely look at each other, let alone speak to each other.

Hermione might have forgiven his accusations had they not so closely mirrored her own guilt. There was a Death Eater at Hogwarts and she had kept quiet about it. And maybe Dumbledore knew, and maybe he didn't, but it did not change the fact that she knew. She knew and she had chosen not to do anything about it.

The Unbreakable Vow forbade her to disclose much of the information she had, but she could have tried harder, she could have found a way. Smartest witch in the school and she had done preciously little to stop Malfoy. The coded documents still sat inside her Ancient Runes textbook, unexamined and useless. She had found no time to work on them, but time enough to fool around with Draco in the tower room.

And Harry wasn't wrong. Some part of her had been protecting Draco. Against her self-interest, against her common sense, she had been protecting him. Harry might be a self-righteous ass, but he wasn't wrong.

Hermione was one of the first to leave the room when Flitwick dismissed the class. Ignoring the heavy weight pressing against her chest, she made for the library. There were a couple of hours to go until dinner, plenty of time to work on the damn code, far away from Harry and Ron and Draco, and the mess she had made of everything. She could do this one thing right. She would do this one thing right.

That resolution accompanied her until she turned a corner and spotted Draco walking in the opposite direction, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Their eyes met for a split second before their both looked away.

And then Hermione did something stupid. She unpinned her prefect badge and moved it to the opposite lapel. She did not pause to see if Draco had seen it, but kept on walking, making towards a little-used staircase that led to one of the many out-of-the-way rooms Filch had made them clean.

The previously cluttered and dust-covered room was now dust-free and slightly less cluttered, allowing just enough space for her to pace back and forth while waiting for Draco to show up. It didn't occur to her that he might not. After everything that had happened, after everything he had done, the very least he owed her was to show up.

Their story had started in rooms like that one, half a million years ago. Broom closets, and storage rooms, and dusty old corners where no one ever went. A boy with an inflated sense of his own worth and a girl who liked books better than she liked people. It had been just wrong enough to be fun, and just dangerous enough to be exciting, and she didn't quite know how they had gone from there to here. From two people who could barely stand each other — constant snogging notwithstanding — to this mess of mixed feelings and conflicting loyalties.

Draco walked into the room, closing the door behind him, and for several moments none of them said a word. What a mess they had made of everything, she and this boy of hers who would be a villain however much it cost him. However much it cost her.

She would have kept him safe, if she could, but not at the expense of herself, and not at the expense of her friends. Not anymore. Harry wasn't wrong, and it was time for her to pick sides once and for all.

Hermione reached into her pocket and took out the necklace he had given her, with its shiny constellation on a dark sky. Crossing the short space between them, she took Draco's hand and placed the necklace on his open palm. He took it without comment, but his impassive expression lasted only until he felt her drop the wards on the tower room, all the way across the castle.

"Hermione," he pleaded, grabbing her hand as she moved past him, towards the door.

She looked back at him and tried to smile.

"If we ever make it to the other side of this," she said, "give it back to me."

And with that she turned and left, pausing at the top of the stairs to dry her face before walking out onto the corridor, where a mass of students hurried to class.

* * *

Hermione had no words to express the relief she felt when Ron finally woke up the next morning. She would have spent the whole day in the infirmary if Madam Pomfrey had not kicked out everyone whose last name wasn't Weasley. The murderous look Harry shot the nurse was almost identical to the ones he kept giving Hermione.

The witch took their banishment from the Hospital Wing with relative equanimity. Ron was fine, and that was as much as she needed to know at present. She needed to talk to him, but what she had to discuss was incompatible with an audience, so it would have to wait.

It did not have to wait very long, however. Making use of skills eleven-year-old Hermione would never have dreamt of acquiring, the witch sneaked out of the dormitories after curfew, making sure to avoid Filch's usual routes.

She was almost at the infirmary when the door swung open and Blaise Zabini sauntered out without bothering to check whether the coast was clear. He took no more than two steps before spotting her, and for a few seconds neither of them moved or made a sound. Hermione was the first to react, wand outstretched in front of her before she even had time to think about it.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "What have you done to him?"

Quickly recovering from the surprise, Zabini smirked and walked slowly towards her, hands in his pockets, not a care in the world.

"I didn't lay a finger on him, Granger," he drawled. "Not like you're suggesting, anyway. What? You think you're the only one who enjoys the occasional tryst behind enemy lines?" He stopped next to her, an eyebrow raised at the wand. "Gryffindors are always so melodramatic." And with that he moved on, strolling along the deserted corridor without another glance back.

Hermione rushed to the door, barging into the infirmary without caring whether the noise might carry to Madam Pomfrey's nearby room. She was greeted by Ron's quarrelsome tone.

"Sod off, Zabini," he said, his back turned. "It's 3a.m. I'm going to start thinking you care."

Relief washed over her. She needed everyone around her to stop being in danger on a semi-regular basis. She needed the first thing that sprung to mind whenever something happened not to be that someone was dead or dying or hurt. Was that so much to ask?

"It's me," she said, carefully closing the door behind her

Ron sat up with a start, turning a deep shade of red. "Thought you were someone else," he mumbled.

"Tall, dark and annoying?" she asked, still light-headed from the adrenaline. "Met him on the way out."

Ron refused to meet her eyes as she sat down on the bed, focusing instead on a loose thread from the blanket covering him.

"Yeah… He… That is…" He paused, twisting the thread between his fingers. Then, seemingly deciding that it was in everyone's best interest if he just changed the subject — certainly in his — he said, "What are you doing here this late, anyway?"

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to ease the knot in her stomach — a knot that was part nerves, and part fear, and all guilt.

"I need to talk to you about something," she said.

Ron crossed his legs, sitting up straighter. "In the middle of the night?"

Quick and to the point. Like ripping off a band-aid.

"I think Dra— Malfoy did this to you. I think Malfoy hurt Katie. I think that horrid necklace was his."

"Well, yeah," Ron cut in, "so does Harry, but Malfoy wasn't in Hogsmeade when—"

"I'm not done. I know things Harry doesn't. And the reason I know them is because Malfoy and I… we… Draco and I were together." Unable to look at Ron anymore, Hermione kept going, trying to say everything she needed to say before she had time to think better of it. "We were together and there are things I know, and if I had spoken up maybe this wouldn't have happened and you wouldn't be hurt. It's partly my fault and I'm sorry, Ron. I'm so sorry."

Hermione bit her lip, waiting for the explosion that was sure to come, but was met by nothing but silence. She finally chanced a look at Ron, who was staring at her wide-eyed. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no sound came out. When he finally managed to speak, his voice was unusually high-pitched.

"Together how?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. Of course that was the only part he'd paid any attention to.

"He helps me knit scarves for house-elves," she said. "How do you think?"

"But what about Viktor Krum?"

"Oh for goodness' sake. You and Harry need to stop fixating on Krum. It's been two years. Nothing ever happened between me and Viktor. We were only ever friends, and anyway I don't think that's what—"

"But he's vile," Ron said horrified, only half listening to the witch. "He's… He's Malfoy! He's a freaking Slytherin! How could you possibly—"

"Well, last time I checked," she cut in, her temper flaring up, "Zabini isn't in Hufflepuff."

Ron had the good grace to blush. "Well, that's a completely different thing," he muttered.

"Oh really? Do tell."

"Well, it's… he… we… It just is, alright?"

"And Lavender would agree it's a completely different thing, do you think?"

"Well, it's not… It's not like it's a relationship or anything. Just two blokes having a laugh."

"So that's how you excuse being a cheating prat?"

"Oi!" he said indignantly, suddenly catching on to the fact that the tables had somehow turned. "Let's go back to the part where you were apologising to me."

"I wasn't apologising to you." Apparently her memory was as curiously constituted as his morals.

"You're dating Malfoy!" he accused.

"Glass houses, Ronald."

"Your boyfriend almost got me killed."

"We don't know that for sure."

They almost jumped out of their skins when someone spoke at the other end of the infirmary.

"Is this a private party, or can anyone join?" Harry smirked at their panicked expressions and walked over to the bed.

"Mate, make some noise when you walk," Ron complained, slightly out of breath. "Merlin's beard."

"You'd have heard me if you weren't trying to wake up half the castle," Harry said good-naturedly. "How is Madam Pomfrey not here yet?"

"Muffliato charm," Ron said.

Hermione stared at the quilt, pointedly refusing to meet Harry's gaze. He sat on the other side of the bed and reached over, touching her hand lightly with his.

"Truce?"

"Let me guess," Ron said. "She also told you about this demented thing with Malfoy?"

"Nah, I've known that for a while."

"You bloody knew?! And you didn't think to tell me?"

Harry shrugged. "I keep your secrets. I keep hers too."

"His secrets?" It was Hermione's turn to be indignant. "You knew about Zabini?"

"Of course I knew about Zabini," Harry said. "I know all about the piss-poor life choices you both make. But that's besides the point. Hermione, you need to tell us what you know about Malfoy."

Hermione sighed. Harry was like a broken record, but it was just as well. No more secrets.

"I will tell you what I can."

"No. Not what you can. You will tell us what you know."

The witch bristled at his tone, but tried to keep her temper in check. "What I can, Harry. I took the Unbreakable Vow, so there are things—"

Harry almost had a fit. "You took the Unbreakable—"

"Yes, I know," Hermione cut in. "'Make better life choices.' There's no helping it now."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained expression. "Neither one of you should be allowed to make decisions. Ever."

"Oi, enough with the high and mighty," Ron said, fishing a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans from the small drawer on the nightstand. "As if I don't know you've been carrying a torch for Parkison since our third year. Good life choices indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a while (It took two years, I'm so sorry!) but I finally got this chapter done. I wish that meant I'm likely to update more regularly than once every two years, and I hope it does, but who can say? Life is complicated and I have the attention span of a six-year-old.
> 
> Complication remains in semi-hiatus and will be updated whenever the stars are in alignment. Don't blame me, blame the stars.
> 
> If you're new to the story and only just read this far, hi there! If you've been sticking with this story for the last three years, I'm so sorry and you're awesome! 
> 
> I hope you all like the chapter and I'm sorry if there are any plot inconsistencies (I tried to be on the lookout for them, but it's been two years...)


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